


Shield of David

by lembas7



Series: ECverse [15]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lembas7/pseuds/lembas7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Protection will always be given to those that ask for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [18 July 1994 through 7 August 1994]

 

 

* * *

****_18 July_ _1994_** **

* * *

******_(Sirius)_  ** ** **

* * *

It was a short article.

And given the series documenting every word, action, and hitch in the trial – including Peter Pettigrew’s failed escape attempt – it didn’t garner as much attention as the two other headlines that shared the front page.

After all, by now everyone expected to see **SIRIUS BLACK DECLARED INNOCENT**. The article just publicized a fact that it had taken the Wizarding world a month to accept.

Of less interest was the fate of Pettigrew. Revealed as a traitor, much of the hatred formerly aimed at Black had shifted target. Under Veritaserum, before the Wizengamot, the truth had at last come out. Pettigrew was sentenced to life in Azkaban; precautions, due to the nature of his Animagus form, were plentiful.

Of more interest was the confirmation that **DEATH EATERS STIR ONCE MORE**.

_Well, it’s not entirely rubbish._

Sirius dropped the paper, loosing a breath. The man who had gone to Azkaban might have thrown the _Daily Prophet_ , might have raged and railed. The man who had escaped simply bit his lip on any number of vile curses, and scanned the article again.

Auror training had taught him control, and failed to teach him patience. Azkaban had refined that control to perfection, and forced patience down his throat, draught by bitter draught. The only thing that had separated him from the other inhabitants of that ghastly island had been innocence and sanity. One could be denied, but not undone. The other was much harder to hang on to.

Pale blue eyes narrowed, jumped back up to the name gracing the article. _Robert Channesy._ According to Remus, this particular reporter was well-known for exposing the blunt truth. He might not trust the press, but he trusted his friend. And if the Death Eaters were coming back once more . . .

 _Voldemort._ The idea that he might have returned was unbearable. But so had life in Azkaban been unbearable. _Somehow, something has changed. Something is different._ It had to be. _And the Order knows even more._

Not that he knew much about that. _Or that I really want to._

Blessed – or cursed – with a solitary cell for twelve years, he had had the opportunity to do quite a lot of thinking. More than half that time he had spent drowning in miserable memories; replayed recollections of leaving home, of death, of betrayal and loss. But when the Dementors retreated, Sirius had had time to wonder about the quietude. The lack of any contact, even from those wishing to gloat over his misery.

 _And there are plenty of those._ Some had cause to hate him for his actions, though most of those were there as well, locked behind bars and rotting gray cloaks. Far more hated him for his name and blood, for his House, and simply for his life. Yet even the insane prisoners received the occasional visitor. _There was nothing. No one._

Not even a member of the Order, with malice and a Memory Charm, to take away what he knew of the covert group.

He had been far from reassured by that. _Did Dumbledore think me no threat, locked in Azkaban? Did he think there was no risk, with Voldemort gone?_ Such action would have been remarkably careless of the man. The Order, after all, had not entirely disappeared in the wake of that horrible night.

Surrounded by filthy stone, his only reprieve a small, barred window that admitted both sun and rain, Sirius had come to several conclusions. And had lost all trust in his world.

There had been a lapse, somewhere. He’d more than once wondered if the thought was the first stirrings of insanity, but in calmer moments, he had known. There had been ways to prevent his fate; there had been people who would have listened. The attempt might have locked him away regardless, but at least it would have been made. _But I fell through – no, I was forced through, the cracks in the system._

Beaten bloody by former colleagues and former friends who had been _glad_ to do it, _glad_ to know that they had gotten him, finished the war, saved the world – he had not broken.

It was over now. He was innocent, and the world knew. But he felt no relief, only a tired acceptance – something that not even Azkaban had been able to teach him.

Thin fingers reached for the paper, and paused. Pale eyes locked on the article. **DEATH EATERS STIR ONCE MORE**.

_It’s not over._

 

* * *

****_(Remus)_ ** **

* * *

“Sirius?” The thin form jerked, twisting sharply. Remus hid a wince. _Have to make more noise, next time._ “Sorry.”

But his friend gave him a small smile, relaxing. Blue eyes brightened in a face that was far too pale.

He took the chair opposite, giving his eyes a moment to wander around the Muggle kitchen. The strangeness lay in the similarities – but with the Pevensies, he’d come to expect that. They’d been staying at the Mansion since classes let out. Through the trial . . .

“It’s made the papers, then,” he noted.

Sirius slid the _Daily Prophet_ over.

Remus kept his eyes on his friend, the pallor, the haggardness. He was slimmer than he’d ever been, but the weight was steadily coming back, muscle slowly building up once more.

_But in his eyes . . ._

The Sirius before Azkaban would have joked and smiled at him, passing any anxiety off with a grin. This man just looked tired. “Along with _that_.”

Remus redirected his stare to the paper. He was glad for that spark of anger, proving it was still Sirius inside. Haunted, but strangely, impossibly – _miraculously_ – whole. “You always did defy the odds,” he murmured, looking up to catch a bemused glance.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” Remus said quickly, refocusing on the page. _Ah._ So that’s what had caught Sirius’s ire. _Death Eaters stirring, in . . . Surrey._ And he knew why. _All that – the pain and the years alone, and James and Lily –_ and now there were rumors that Voldemort had returned. He snarled, low and angry.

“Exactly.”

Remus lowered the paper, seeing all his pain and more in the blue eyes across the table from him. “The full moon’s in a week,” he offered, suddenly desperate to talk about anything else.

Sirius smiled at him, crooked, but understanding. “Yeah. I know.”

Though he hadn’t thought so at first, the Pevensies were well aware of _exactly_ what they’d offered, when they’d insisted that Remus and Sirius stay at the Mansion in the summer.

“Do you – that is -” Remus felt his face heat. He hadn’t stuttered so over his words since the train, that awkward first year. _Oh, this is bloody awful. How do I –_ But this was his best friend. So of course it was awkward, trying to figure out how to repair a friendship that didn’t need to be fixed. It just needed to grow, thirteen years’ worth, in as short a time as he could make it.

But they could still read each other, almost as well as they ever could. And Sirius’s smile became more _real_ , somehow. “Don’t be silly, Moony. ‘Course.”

And Remus couldn’t help but grin back, feeling the wolf ease within him. _Padfoot is back._ It couldn’t be perfect – what was? – but it was damn near close enough.

“You had to ask?” A bit of the ever-confident Sirius peeked through years of abuse to smile, unaccustomedly shy, at him.

He couldn’t explain why, couldn’t assume that everything would be the same. _I wanted to . . ._ So badly, that he just _couldn’t_. But now, he let the grin free. “I had to.”

 

* * *

****_(Draco)_  ** **

* * *

_Damn._

“– will. Or I’ll have -” His father’s voice, cutting through the shouts emanating through the study door. So much for silencing charms.

But Gibbon apparently wasn’t cowed by his father’s tone. _More the fool he_ , Draco thought without pity. “No! What the hell would -”

Quiet, silky tones, familiar to anyone who’d survived Lucius Malfoy’s anger. “– of the Dark Lord. Mine. And yours.”

 _Careful, careful . . ._ Draco crept closer, watching the locking spells. After this many years, he knew every one inside out. Get too close, and the caster would be immediately alerted – but not the unlucky sod who tripped the alarm.

“You’ve all but guaranteed your own demise at our Lord’s hands through your betrayal.”

 _Lord?_ Father couldn’t possibly be talking about . . . _him_ , could he? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was _dead_. Or close enough.

“You plan to do this, then.”

Draco snorted, careful to keep it quiet. You didn’t have to be able to see Gibbon to see the brutal-faced man’s resignation. _No one says no to Father. Haven’t you figured that out by now?_

“You _will_ be the willing sacrifice,” Lucius said bluntly. _Willing sacrifice?_ That didn’t sound good . . .

An indrawn breath. “You can’t possibly – there must be some other -”

“You have two weeks to get your affairs in order.”

Draco knew what _that_ meant. Magic didn’t call for – _Old magic does_ , a voice of caution reminded him. The same voice that had him keeping regular correspondence with Edmund Pevensie, out of his parents’ watchful sight. _Dark magic._

“And the enemy?” Gibbon sounded upset. Resigned.

Draco snorted. _Defeated so soon? No wonder Father said you were a worthless waste._ Intimidating or not, the bulky Death Eater lacked any sort of defiance. Which Draco supposed was required in a servant. He sneered unconsciously. _I bow to no one!_ No one. _Voldemort_ least of all.

“Leave that to me.”

Pale eyes widened. _Time to go!_ The thin form skulked back into the shadows, skittering down the hallway. A careful jump put him across the squeaky step; soft feet placed themselves on the very inside edges of the stairs, ascending noiselessly.

A moment to seat himself at his desk, pull texts, ink and quill towards him. _Perfect. Nothing amiss in Malfoy Manor. The boy? He’s been at his books all day._

And he had homework – for a sterner taskmaster than any at Hogwarts. Despite the fact that it was summer, and in years past he had spent the summers on his broom, in the Wiltshire sky –

 _But it was different then,_ Draco reminded himself fiercely.

It had been. The darkening cloud that was Lord Voldemort’s very existence hadn’t shadowed his future. _It’s swallowing my entire life._ And the thought brought with it the panic of a drowning man. _No!_

It had been different. Five years ago, Nothos had still been alive. _‘An heir and a spare’._ Malfoys were practical as any other pureblooded Wizarding family. Though his friends at school – and _especially_ his ‘enemies’ – would never believe it, Draco hadn’t been the heir.

Nothos had two years on him, had been a month away from his own Hogwarts letter, before the accident. Draco could forget, most of the time. _Because no one in polite society will speak of it._ He buried the rage, deep inside. Bottle it tight enough, and the explosion might one day set him free. _Such a scandal. ‘But at least you have a spare.’_

Did they think him deaf? He’d been standing right next to Mother when Madam Avery had said it. _Bitch_.

And Nothos _had_ been the heir, in fact as well as word. Upon turning ten, old magics had taken hold; magics that could be prevented if the parents wished, but once set, never undone. Many had tried, and failed, in doing so. _Magics as old as wizardry._

After his death, on Draco’s tenth birthday, those selfsame magics had turned their attention to him. As had both his parents, becoming actively intent on every aspect of their remaining son. Failings and achievements were seen equally, and punished appropriately. The best was no longer good enough.

Neither of his parents had seemed very remorseful at the funeral.

Until the end of last summer, Draco had never known why.

Fingers absently smoothed white-blond strands, blue eyes blind to the essay before him. He’d finished it some time ago,  moving on to do the preliminary year’s work for the Muggle Studies books he’d hidden with every bit of cleverness and magic he’d ever been taught – and a few he’d discovered for himself.

Eavesdropping was risky – not only for the obvious reasons. Draco had learned early on about getting caught. No, sometimes what happened when you _didn’t_ get caught was worse. _What you heard._

Mother had always said that Nothos was a bit premature; and in the pictures, he _had_ been a small baby. But Draco knew very little about how babies were _supposed_ to look. Apparently, Father had had his suspicions from the very beginning. Which was why he’d named Nothos what he did.

_‘He was no heir of mine. Thanks to you,’ Lucius sneered._

_Mother’s soft words were lost to the muffling carpeting and wood of Father’s study._

_An inelegant snort. ‘Do be quiet, Narcissa. You know your family connections protect you, even from_ me _. As for your son – well, there exists no problem anymore.’_

No. The only way to survive was not to think of it. Not to think of how his father had… _handled_ the ‘problem’.

 _That_ problem _was my brother! The only one I ever –_

Nothos had been the only one close to him, his entire life. Draco could see in hindsight how Father had always tried to set them against each other. But in defiance of that, they had been closer than they might have been otherwise.

And when he’d found out that his brother, four years in the grave, had been _murdered_ because he wasn’t ‘fit’ . . . If Draco even tried to think about _who_ had done the deed, he knew he might start casting hexes, and not stop until one of them was dead.

He certainly hadn’t been in any way prepared to be hustled onto the train less than two days later, with those two bumbling idiots Crabbe and Goyle, who were only ‘keeping a watch’ on him. Not for his parents, but for theirs. _Though you never know. It might be for both._

He reached for spare parchment and a quill. _That’s how life as a Slytherin is._ Only he had the ambition to get free of it all.

And _then_ he’d seen Granger, Potter and Weasley. Granger, whose family was safe as Muggles, at least for now. Potter, who had no family to speak of. And Weasley, who had so many brothers, he’d probably never notice if one died. _None of them know real loss._ Sure, Potter’s parents were dead – but he couldn’t even remember them, no matter what anyone said.

So the war against You-Know-Who might have taken away any chance the Boy Who Lived had to be loved – but it had done the same to Draco.

All in all, it _hadn’t_ been the best way to start his third year at Hogwarts.

He still didn’t know who Nothos’ father was, but that didn’t matter. He’d pieced together enough, with what he’d heard these past few weeks, to come to the conclusion that his beloved older brother hadn’t been as pureblooded as the world had assumed. _Oh, I have no proof._ And never would, knowing Father.

But it was You-Kn – _Voldemort_ , and his pureblooded prejudices, that had stolen the only person Draco had ever loved. _And who ever loved me._ Lucius had ever been looking forward. And should his Lord return to find his staunchest follower’s heir wasn’t _pure_ . . .

_They will pay._

Quill-tip set ink to parchment.

 _Dear Edmund . . ._  

 

* * *

****_20 July 1994_ ** **

* * *

**_**(** Harry)_** 

* * *

The view from the window of Dudley’s second bedroom was really quite nice, especially now that the bars had been taken off. After all, he hadn’t yet told them that there really wasn’t anything to be afraid of, as his godfather wasn’t as murderous as they believed.

Hermione had forwarded him the article from the Daily Prophet; she’d even had it framed. It sat next to Sirius’s latest letter; one that filled him in equal measure with joy and nervousness.

 ** _‘- some time to convince Dumbledore,’_** ran Sirius’s bold handwriting. **_‘But if you like, you can come stay with me at the Pevensies’ for the rest of the summer. I’ll come and get you after the full moon.’_**

He’d scrambled then for a calendar and a date, and realized that Sirius would be there before his birthday. He’d be away from the Dursleys, for the first time since his parents died, on the thirty-first of July.

He’d been shaking so hard with excitement that he’d had to wait a moment before he could pen a response. Even Hedwig had caught some of the jittery joy.

Now that time had passed, he’d had cause to wonder. He’d gotten to know Sirius, but not as well as Lupin. He guessed he just needed time. Sirius had written that he did have a home; the last surviving scion of the Black family had been just as surprised to hear about it as Harry had, apparently.

**_‘After the death of my parents and brother, everything reverted back to me. Grimmauld Place hasn’t been lived in for years – God knows what’s become of it.’_ **

But they had the chance to explore it together. Sirius still needed a new wand, and Harry’s Hogwarts letter had the list of books he needed for the next year. Apparently the Mansion owned by the Pevensies wasn’t far from Hogwarts. And from Hogsmeade, they could floo to Diagon Alley.

So why was he so nervous about this?

Maybe it was _because_ he was leaving the Dursleys, for the first time. The time he spent here was an awful, frightened and hungry part of his life – but at least he knew the rules. _Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Don’t let them see you sneak the food; don’t draw attention. Don’t make eye contact, don’t think or act or move out of place._

Harder this summer, because of what had happened at the end of last. Blowing up ‘Aunt’ Marge had slipped completely from his mind – but not from his relatives’. But also easier; with the threat of Sirius’s retribution hanging over their heads, the Dursleys were less inclined to punish him for minor ‘offenses’.

He felt awful, knowing he was manipulating them and lying. He felt even worse when he realized that the benefits of not being smacked around meant he wouldn’t stop. He _really_ wanted to talk to Peter. But sending Hedwig with another letter was the best he could do for now.

_Dear Peter . . ._

 

* * *

****_(Edmund)_ ** **

* * *

         

Fingers curled around a cup of tea, he warily eyed the kitchen door. _I don’t think it’s ever been this bad._

And it hadn’t. Even as children, there had been no awkwardness between them. They’d known one another well enough to understand without needing words. Now, all they had left was words, and no understanding.

_And it doesn’t help that Peter’s not here._

Edmund understood; really, he did. Peter’d had to go back, check in with his job. The government tended to get twitchy when those who worked for its shadier divisions took long leaves of absence, and failed to reappear at the end of them. _The last thing we need now is more attention._

The Pevensies were trying to reconnect, after years of aching misunderstanding and distance. The mess with the Wizarding world . . . by now, Edmund was irritated enough to begrudge it its very _existence_ , never mind the troublesome copies of the _Daily Prophet_ that came by owl every morning.

_Suffice to say, there’s been a lot of explaining on both sides._

He’d escaped the uncomfortable conversation in the study on the pretext of refreshing his cup of tea. He’d much rather dump it and run, but he honestly did want to talk to Su again. _If only we could . . ._

If only they could get past the wall that had built up during their years apart.

_Well, you’re not doing much standing in the hallway like a dazed faun._

There was always that, after all – if at first you don’t succeed, hit it with a bigger hammer. _Not exactly diplomatic._ But then, he’d always been the worst of his siblings at that. Turning on his heel, Edmund abandoned the idea of entering the kitchen. Lu and Su were in the study – _So what in bloody blazes am I doing here? Time to shake things up a bit._

 

* * *

****_(Peter)_ ** **

* * *

“Wait here.”

The door closed with a soft _click_ , leaving him alone with a table and chair. _And a two-way mirror._ He almost smiled, but knew that the harsh lighting would catch the expression, reflecting it back to whoever was watching from behind silvered glass. _If there’s anyone there at all._

Mind games. They knew that he could recognize a two-way mirror; he knew that they knew – sometimes, it was enough to make Peter wish for an honest battle. At least there, lines were drawn and there was no chicanery.

He settled himself in the uncomfortable chair, content to wait. With years of patience gained in court, he held any sign of his unease from his face.

And he _was_ uneasy.

The debriefing had been normal; or as normal as it could be, without his giving away many pertinent details. He’d had to attend to a family matter, such as it was. _Rumors and hints of Voldemort . . ._ nothing tangible, but dangerous enough. And his family would always come above all else.

But there was no obvious call for alarm.

_So why, now, am I going through a second debrief? Did something happen that I haven’t heard about?_

Possible, but unlikely. He’d kept in regular contact with his colleagues. Though no details were given from either end, that was expected. But surely he’d have heard if something had happened.

The door opened, and his head came up. The woman who entered was not his supervisor, as he had expected. Younger, and slender, with angular features and hair like sunset on grain. _Familiar_ features, though he knew he’d never seen this woman before.

And she was wearing a witch’s robes.

Peter felt his face draw into grim lines. _Dumbledore._ He didn’t know how, and he didn’t know why, but it was the only explanation.

The witch held out a hand, coolly professional. _At least she doesn’t have a wand pointed at me. Yet._ Though the fat folder she held was hardly more reassuring. This could only have something to do with Hogwarts. _Or Voldemort._ “Aileen Macready,” she introduced herself. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Peter hesitated, as he knew he should, before shaking her hand. “Peter Pevensie.” _Macready?! It couldn’t be . . ._ It was a common name. But now that he’d placed it, he recognized the set of her features; green eyes, thin, angular face with high cheekbones.

She took the seat across from him, opening the folder.

Recognizing the tactic, he waited patiently as she slowly read through several documents. Green eyes finally settled on him. She pushed the frames up on her nose.

“I was hoping you could help me.” She gestured to the file. He couldn’t see whose it was, yet. _But I don’t trust it._ Anything from the Ministry of Magic . . . who knew who was _really_ in command, with Fudge’s incompetence. “There are a few things I’d like to clear up.”

“Of course,” Peter gave her the polite response. And hoped he could bluff his way through, for the benefit of hidden recording devices that were no doubt thirstily saving every word.

“I understand you took a leave of absence for the past eleven months?”

“I needed to attend to some important family matters.” The truth. _Just not all of it._

“And you were . . .” Aileen probed. Eyes on the folder, hands sifting through papers, she even managed to look nonchalant.

 Blue eyes were level. “In America.” _At least, that’s what every Muggle paper trail will tell you._ Oh, he’d bought the plane ticket, sure enough. And handed it off, soon as he could, to a friend of Edmund’s.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He gave her credit; if he didn’t know where this was going, he’d never have guessed it from her tone of voice or body language. She was perfectly relaxed, acting as if the barest of her attention was on the interrogation. _And that’s what it is, diplomacy be damned._

“I’ve never been to America.”

He said nothing.

“I’ve heard it’s quite a sight. The people especially,” she chattered on, covering the pause she’d left him to reply. “A very different culture. It must have been interesting to experience it.”

He said nothing.

Green eyes narrowed.

_Here it comes._

“If, that is, you actually went to America.”

He said nothing, continuing to stare levelly at her. Narnian courts were good practice. _Use the silence._

“And I,” she paused, interlacing fingers atop the folder’s contents, “don’t think you did.”

Peter raised an interested brow, and said with utter confidence, “Where, then, do you think I went?” Just a little exasperation in face and body, a tint of irritation. Just enough for it to ring true. _Just a profiler, trying to get back to the job with minimum hassle, landed with a woman who’s got more than her share of paranoia._  

“The HogwartsSchool of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

_Lights, camera, action!_

He let the silence hang heavy, before skeptically repeating, “The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Her lips pursed. “Yes.”

Peter went for the door. Fingers wrapped around the handle before a strident voice rang out behind him.

“You seem to think this interview is over.”

He turned, leant a shoulder against the wall. Folded his arms. And leveled a scathing blue stare her way. “You’re insane,” Peter said flatly.

She took it remarkably well. _Just like the Macready. You can almost see the steam coming out of her ears._ “What makes you say that?”

Peter eyed her. “Let me state the obvious. First,” he ticked off a digit, “the clothes. Next, that whole ‘witchcraft and wizardry’ thing. Third, whatever you’ve got in the holster under your arm, it’s _not_ a gun.”

No mention of her insinuations; keep attention as far from those as possible.

_Besides. Given what Edmund would do if he were here, I think I’m behaving myself._

“Be that as it may,” she responded tightly, “Your superiors have ordered you to remain for a debriefing. And you will stay, until _I_ decide that it’s over.”

Peter snorted. “Stop me.”

A heartbeat’s pause, as he turned the handle.

_"Impedimenta!”_

Peter dove for the floor, the spell missing him by inches. He rolled behind the table for cover.

Silence.

Carefully, watching her every move, he stood.

Between him and the door, Macready looked much more relaxed. Especially with what he judged to be about ten inches of dogwood casually aimed his way.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, biting back a much more Narnian curse.

“A spell, Mr. Pevensie. Surely you’re not going to try to tell me you’ve never seen one before.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I think you’re out of your mind.”

“Then why did you dive for the floor?” Sweet satisfaction, there, in the surety that he was caught.

 _Think again._ “Because if I had a gun, that would be when I’d shoot.”

The wand slipped back into its holster. _She thinks she’s won._  “This interview is not over, Mr. Pevensie. Sit down.”

“I don’t think so.” Before she could blink, he shouldered past her, and was gone.

 

* * *

****_(Aileen Macready)_  ** **

* * *

“Enjoying the show?”

She winced. “It really is that bad, isn’t it,” she murmured.

At her side, also perusing the playback, was Alberta Lopatin. The older woman was kind enough to stifle her snickers, as the replay of Pevensie’s stubbornness goaded her younger colleague into snapping fury. _At least she’s not eating popcorn._

“I had no idea he was this good,” Pevensie’s supervisor said thoughtfully.

“Neither did I,” Aileen grumbled. “You _told_ me he was an ordinary profiler! Not an agent!”

“He’s not.” But by the look in her eye, Bert was chewing on an idea.

 _All my questions – evaded. Deflected. The only outright lie consisting of two words. He definitely_ wasn’t _in America. But I can’t prove it!_ Not using purely Muggle evidence, at least.

Aileen kept her eyes riveted to the recording. “I thought he was a Muggle.” _From everything Dumbledore wrote me, he seemed ordinary enough._ Except for the fact that this man had somehow managed to garner the enmity of Voldemort, if she read between the lines. And he had _no_ other ties to the magical world.

Daughter of a Muggle-born wizard and a Muggle mother, Aileen Macready had gone to Hogwarts, and was familiar enough with both worlds to be more than useful to her government. _Intra-governmental liaison between Muggle and Magical Ministries. Sounds so much more glorious than ‘multiple-department slave’._

“He _is_ a Muggle.” Bert was staring at the film avidly. Cataloguing reflexes as he dove for the floor, no doubt. “No indication in his file of any magical tendencies. Quite the opposite, in fact.”   

“And his family?” _‘I needed to attend to some important family matters.’_

“All distant, apparently. And all in America.”

“No immediate family in England?” she pressed.

Bert shrugged. Aileen wasn’t fool enough to think that because sharp grey eyes were trained on the recording, that Bert wasn’t paying attention. “Not according to our files. What do your sources say?”

Aileen considered the film, once more. On screen, Pevensie pushed past her and out the doorway. “What did he say when he got to your office?” she asked instead.

Bert folded her hands behind her back in amusement. “He thinks you are without a doubt quite off your rocker, my dear.”       

Aileen snorted. _Not a bad actor._

“And he wanted to know what the hell I was playing at, sending him in there to talk to a madwoman,” Bert finished calmly.

Aileen switched the recording off, pocketing the disk. Made herself comfortable in a leather chair. _Nice office, Bertie._ And tilted her head, intrigued. “He said that?”

“Not in so many words,” Alberta said dryly. “He’s always been more diplomatic than that.” She pulled Pevensie’s file in front of her, slipping her shoes off as she sat at her desk. Glasses came out. Perched on her nose, the lenses made her look grandmotherly, though few people said that to her face and lived to tell of it.

 _At least, more grandmotherly than Gram Macready._ Her father’s mother had been a cold woman, at least when it came to her son and his ‘unholy’ ways. Though Grams had always loved her. _I guess it’s a good thing she died before I got my Hogwarts letter._

“Well, disguising this as a normal debriefing didn’t work.”

“Thank you, Bert, for stating the obvious,” Aileen drawled. She picked at her fingernails, thinking madly.            

Alberta tossed her glasses onto the desk, sitting back. Aileen ignored the intent glare fixed on her.

“So your superiors don’t know about this little venture of yours,” the older woman said softly.

Aileen froze, then internally cursed the reaction. “What makes you say that?” _She’s never going to buy that._

True to form, the supervisor of this covert branch of Muggle government fixed her with a steely glare. “I’ve known you since you were toddling about in nappies,” she stated baldly.

Aileen winced. _I guess I asked for that._

“I can tell when you’re lying. And I can tell,” steely eyes softened, “when you’re reaching just a little bit beyond your orders, when it comes to us.”

The view from Bert’s window was splendid. Especially in summer, when the Thames wasn’t dirty from the spring thaw. The water glared at all of London, reflecting the sunlight -

“Aileen.”

The Magical government really did have a ridiculous policy when it came to dealing with its Muggle counterpart. Minimum contact? One liaison? _One?_ Truth be told, it was probably only her father’s position and her close connections with Alberta Lopatin that got her this job. _They had to get rid of me somehow._ And she had a devil of a time getting anyone to even _listen_ to her at _all . . ._

 _And most of that’s due to Fudge. The man is an incompetent windbag._ It was completely beyond her how he kept getting re-elected.

“I might have done a little stretching,” she admitted.

“Just to keep in shape?” Bert was suspicious.

“There _is_ something there,” she insisted, knowing she was rising to the bait and answering anyway. “I have direct confirmation of his link to the Magical world.”

“But it’s the indirect insinuations you need information about.”

Bert had always had the distinct ability to cut through the crap to the heart of a situation. Aileen scowled. _I really hate it when she does that._ “Do you have an idea on how to get him to talk to me?”

Gray eyes twinkled in an otherwise pleasant face, lighting the gently wrinkled, strong features with an unholy glee. _Oh Merlin,_ Aileen thought faintly. _What have I done?_ She knew _that_ look.    

“As a matter of fact, I do.” 

 

* * *

**_27 July 1994_ ** _  
_

* * *

****_(Harry)_  ** **

* * *

“Sirius!”

Arms wrapped in a hug around him, and Harry finally relaxed. It was real, he was gone, out of the Dursleys’ and _free_ for the summer.

The man held him out at arm’s length, looking him over carefully. He knew that Edmund had told his godfather about what sometimes happened. It wasn’t a big deal, really. Just some bruises.

But it gave him a warm feeling to know that Sirius had been furious; that only Dumbledore’s intervention had prevented him from taking Harry with him immediately at the end of the school year.

 _He wasn’t declared innocent then._ It could have been a disaster.

But it wasn’t – and now –

He looked the other over as well, noting the signs of health. Sirius had put weight back, had healthy color in his skin. _He looks so much better . . ._

Sirius’s eyes were dark, worried. “How are you?”

Harry grinned. “Great.”

Some of the concern slipped away, but not all, and Sirius flashed a quick smile. “Good.”

The reprieve of this summer had been orchestrated by Edmund Pevensie. Appearing as a suitably respectable scholar, and obviously a Muggle, he’d played on the pretense that Harry attended St. Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, claiming the need for subjects for an intense psychological study. In minor panic of being caught out in a lie, as well as jumping at the chance for a legitimate excuse to get rid of him for the rest of July and August, Uncle Vernon had agreed.

Appropriate forms transferring temporary guardianship of Harry into Edmund’s care, which had been previously approved by a judge and notary, were signed. Harry had thought them all part of the farce, until Edmund had very seriously explained that they were real, and necessary.

The drive had been long, but fun and relaxed. He hadn’t been able to believe it, not until the moment the car had pulled up the dirt path, and the Mansion came into sight.

“This place is unbelievable!”

Sirius ruffled his hair affectionately. “It sure is. Hey, are you hungry?”      

Harry’s stomach decided to answer that one for him. He blushed.

Sirius just grinned. “Come on, the kitchen’s this way.”

Harry couldn’t help but stare at the insane jumble of stuff packed into every corner. _It’s almost like a museum. Weird._ But exactly the sort of place he could see the Pevensies living in, somehow. It was just that wondrous bit beyond normal. Harry thought it fit.

There were two women hovering over the stove in the kitchen, and Edmund was making sandwiches. The taller turned, and Harry recognized auburn locks. “Lucy!”

She smiled, reaching out to give him a hug. “Hello, Harry. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he darted a curious glance at the other woman. She turned, and he saw that she had the same dark hair as Edmund, but shared Peter’s blue eyes.

“This is my sister Susan,” Lucy introduced them.

“How d’you do?” Harry managed.

“Fine, thank you,” came a gentle voice. Blue eyes didn’t sparkle like Peter’s, but were warm and welcoming. “Would you like something to eat?”

They were chin-deep in savory soup and sandwiches when Harry found a question. “Where’s Peter?”

Edmund grunted, eyes on a piece of parchment. A letter? “He has to go back to London during the week. For his job.”

“Oh.”

“He’ll be back tomorrow night, for the weekend,” Lucy added. “He takes the train to Coombe Halt, and Ed and I usually meet him there.”

He’d be there before Harry’s birthday then, on Monday. He didn’t say anything, but Harry was excited at the idea of being able to sleep in. He didn’t know what else he wanted to do, but he was sure he’d be able to think of something.

Harry refilled his bowl, drinking the soup down. It really was good. Conversation floated easily between them, and Remus appeared halfway through, engrossed in something he’d plucked from the extensive library.

Almost immediately, jokes started flying between the three older men. Lucy and Susan were involved in a quiet conversation, but everyone included him, talking to him instead of around.

It wasn’t like any meal he’d ever had before, Harry decided. It was calm in a way Hogwarts wasn’t. Pleasant. And close. _Almost like family._

But he shied from that thought, snagging another sandwich.

“So Harry, if you like, I can show you to your room, and you can get settled in a bit before exploring,” Edmund offered.

He looked to his godfather for a moment, and Sirius winked. “Sure!” Harry agreed, carrying his plates to the sink.

“Don’t worry about the dishes,” Susan told him. “It’s my turn to take care of them.”

Harry halted, water running over his hands. “Are you sure?”

Susan smiled, rising to nudge him out of the way. “Go on, have fun.”

“Um, okay.” He hid his awkwardness behind an answering smile. _I guess this is going to take some getting used to._

But Sirius followed them, easily distracting him from his confusion with talk of the Quidditch World Cup. He unpacked in his room, before spending the rest of the day poking and prying his way through the house. By the time dinner rolled around, he was covered in dust and planning on spending all of Friday outside. Padfoot had offered to come with.

As he settled beneath the sheets that night, Harry found himself grinning.

 

* * *

****_(Lucius Malfoy)_ ** **

* * *

Which one, which one . . . . It was an essential decision, one that could assure his place at the right hand of his lord, or bring him a torturously long and painful death.

 _The problem is not the lack,_ he mused coldly. Lucius rose to pace his study. There were plenty of people who opposed Lord Voldemort. Some of them were even worth the effort of fighting. _It must be appropriate._

Harry Potter was the obvious choice. His blood would make the Dark Lord stronger than ever. But that fool, Dumbledore, knew the boy was vulnerable, and had shielded him with powerful magic. Old magic.

 _There are others, whose enmity is just as potent as the Boy Who Lived._ And they were far more accessible.

Dumbledore was out of the question. _Too visible._

He paused, staring out the window onto the sun-warmed grass. Draco was outside, practicing his flying. The boy had managed to adequately complete enough of his assignments to merit the privilege. _I will not have him disgrace my name in any area._

He felt pride in this boy who looked so much like him. _My true heir._ Not like his mother’s first son. Fingers passed gently over the spines of Dark tomes shelved at his side.

He would never show that pride to Draco, of course. The boy was willful and cunning – traits Lucius valued. But his place was at his father’s side, in service of their Lord. He would gain power that way. But it wouldn’t do to have the boy think more of himself than his purpose. _And he exists to carry on the Malfoy name and pureblood legacy. No more._

Lucius stalked across the thick, hand-woven carpet to the mahogany desk that dominated the book-filled room. The article in the _Daily Prophet_ was old, but still useful.        He had found the proper sacrifice for the ritual.

 _But it is still too soon._ Too soon, what with the trial and the attention turned to this forgotten quarter, for him to act directly.

For a moment, he recalled his son’s letter to him, early in the school year. The . . . unsettling revelation that a figure from Lucius’ past had returned.

As a boy, he had been frightened by Peter Pevensie, simply because the man was the antithesis of everything he knew. A _Muggle_ who was unaffected by magic? _Impossible._ He’d come across nothing else like it in his life, before or since. And he had managed to convince himself there was nothing more to it than complex protections laid by Albus Dumbledore, and even forget.

_Until that letter._

He seated himself comfortably in his deep chair. A Cooling Charm kept the study livable in the hot summer months, and even enjoyable at times.

After all, with magic, the unwary saw only what they expected to see. Battling for rights and prestige among the Death Eaters of his Lord had taught him that nothing was what it seemed.

 _And I cannot fault Draco for his reaction._ One which had been nearly identical to his own. _At least the boy had sense enough to stop after one failed curse._ Something Lucius himself had not done, on his first meeting with the strange Muggle.

But he was unsure if Pevensie would be appropriate for use in the ritual. His strange imperviousness to magic might stir more problems than it would solve. _And might destroy entirely what I am trying to create._ After all, every book he had read on the subject pertained only to wizards, magical creatures, and Muggles. _There must be information somewhere!_

So far, he hadn’t found any.

_But that will keep._

Motion, out of the corner of his eye, jerked his attention to the window. Draco executed a spectacular dive, pulling up mere inches from the grass. The boy was more than a passable Seeker, but his continued losses against Potter were not tolerable. If he didn’t begin to win, Lucius would forbid him from playing.

 _Better a gracious defeat than to continue striving and failing,_ he mused coldly. _Something that those who resist my Lord have yet to understand._

Nonetheless, they had their uses.

And his eyes flicked once more to the week-old copy of the _Daily Prophet_. His decision firmed within his mind; it was almost perfect.

But not quite. _First step is always a ruse._ The attack would be executed with Malfoy precision. Once he had the necessary information, he would gather the appropriate support and make his move.

_And Lord Voldemort will rise once more._

 

* * *

****_(Albus Dumbledore)_ ** **

* * *

          

“And you’ve regained contact with them?”

“Yes.” Severus’ face was set.

He softened his voice. “Do they suspect anything?”

The black haired man might have tensed, but Snape was much too controlled for something like that. “No more than they always do, Albus.”

In the magically-warded protections surrounding Dumbledore’s office, it was safe to speak plainly. Or as safe as it ever was. _But Severus has lived too much of his life in danger to allow for a moment’s respite. No matter how much he may need it._

“At present, they have only plans,” Snape continued, his black eyes distant. The mind behind them was no doubt methodically matching words, actions and ideas with shocking speed. He snorted. “Ridiculous plans, and Lucius thinks so as well. The number of Death Eaters is small – since 1981, some have died. More are locked in Azkaban. A few have fled. And active recruitment among the young is rarely successful.”

“Because they known that Voldemort has been, and thus can be, defeated,” Dumbledore mused. He sucked thoughtfully on a lemon drop, and tugged at his beard. “Do you have a number?”

“I would estimate no more than fifty. No less than thirty-five.”

_Troubling, if they continue to gain in numbers and support among those who are old enough to remember the height of Voldemort’s power._

But they would not bend young minds to evil. Not if he could help it. “What of that list you gave me last year?”

The list of high-risk students, developed when the first hints of Voldemort’s second rise to power had tiptoed to Snape’s attention. Those children most at risk; because their parents were Death Eaters. A few more who showed what Snape termed to be ‘dangerous tendencies’.

“I need to adjust it,” was all Snape would say. _He’s certainly not about to admit that Edmund might have had a good impact on some of those students._ Which the ‘Muggle’ undeniably had.

 _I don’t know where he gets his information. But it’s accurate._ Somehow, Edmund had managed to develop contacts deep within the Wizarding world. Contacts that had more up-to-date and reliable information about the actions of the Death Eaters than even Snape.

And in the fight against Voldemort, they needed all the help they could get. So he wouldn’t think on it, would ignore his suspicions and wouldn’t ask questions.

“Yes.” Dumbledore nodded, thinking of the future. Of the upcoming year, and the new students who would be arriving. And the old students, returning. _We still don’t know where Voldemort is._ He felt a flash of fear at the unknown, and tugged at his beard once more. “Do that.”

 

* * *

****_(Susan)_ ** **

* * *

She pushed open the door in the study, hearing Edmund’s voice. He cut off, smiling at her as she entered. Lucy looked up from where she was standing at the corner of the Professor’s desk, rubbing at a tarnished silver tobacco-holder in the shape of an apple.

“Hello,” Susan managed a smile. It wasn’t easy between them, not anymore. But she had faith that time would fix it. _Time and effort._ “Here you are.”

“Susan,” Lucy hugged her. She’d been doing that a lot lately, but Susan couldn’t find it in her to mind. _For so long, I thought I’d never have the chance to hug her again._

And they still hadn’t properly told her why. She’d asked, but they had promised to explain – later. And she knew that even if she pushed now, Edmund and Lucy wouldn’t say anything until Peter got back.

She might not remember everything from Narnia, but she remembered their closeness. _Something I decided I didn’t want to be a part of._ Something they still had, and she desperately regretted giving up. “I wanted to know if I could come with you tomorrow night to pick up Peter.”

“Of course!” Lucy grinned.

Edmund nodded, running a finger along the edge of the desk. “The train comes in around eight thirty at night.”

“When do you leave?” She considered a chair, but abandoned it for the old, familiar couch she’d heard the Professor’s advice on. _I dearly miss that man._

“Usually eight or so.”

She still remembered how shocked she’d been when he died. The Professor had felt some of the effects of Narnia – but not to the extent they had. She’d wondered, at times, if they ever _would_ die. _Not from old age, it would seem._ Not for a very long time.

“I’ll be ready.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

* * *

****_28 July 1994_ ** **

* * *

****_(Aileen Macready)_  ** **

* * *

 

She stifled a yawn behind her hand, staring out the window. The landscape was dark as it flashed by, black and indistinguishable but for the solitary lights of homes scattered through this country. _Merlin, I’m tired._

A long week in the city. She never slept as well with the noises of Muggle mechanics and the false quiet of silencing charms. _Not like the country._ Not that Dunfries was really _country_ – just a small town. Bigger than some of the others on this route’s stops.

She shifted irritably in the tattered plaid upholstery. Laid down _An Introduction to Behavioral Evidence Analysis_ , and stretched full-length across the seat. At least she had this compartment to herself, and could relax. The train was apparently very empty despite the rush of people on the weekend commute out of the city. The earlier trains were loaded; but most of those headed south into the suburbs. Not north, and not this far into the wilds of the UK. _Scotland_ _is that . . ._ But it was home.

She shifted once again, trying to get comfortable. It wasn’t the Muggle clothes – she’d grown up in them and was more used to those than to robes. _Though wizard clothes do double as convenient blankets._ Or balled up nicely as pillows. _Even if the wrinkles are bloody miserable to get out without charms._ Never her strongest suit, but she knew what they said about practice . . .

It was the seat, old and flat and the padding worn to nothing with use. She shifted again, almost falling off as her shoes caught together and she wobbled precariously, balanced on her hip. Eased back, eyed the floor and breathed a sigh. _That was close._ The last thing she wanted right now was a nose-to-dirt interface with the filthy carpet.

Not that the train was badly kept. Just . . . old. _And nothing like the Hogwarts Express._ Which had always been pristine.

Magic was dead useful that way.

Speaking of.

Her mind wandered to the deranged plan she’d let Bert talk her into. _I must be out of my mind._ Alberta Lopatin might be her oldest friend and the closest thing to family she had left, but it didn’t follow that the woman was at all sane. _Kidnapping?_

Aileen turned the thought over incredulously. _She’s gone mad. No question. Completely nutters, utterly batty, one-hundred percent round the bend._

She’d seen the tape of the ‘debriefing’ Bert had given Pevensie over her own failed attempt to interview him about the Magical world. Intended to ‘soothe his fears’ about the ‘madwoman’. _Actually intended to make him nervous._

She couldn’t tell if it had worked. He’d entered the room suspicious, and left it the same way. But Bert seemed confident. _And she’s been at this much longer than I have._

But the ultimate idea was to use magic so obviously, so blatantly, that it couldn’t be denied. And to do that, they had to get Pevensie to a place where they were in complete control of the situation.

She didn’t like it. Had no problem telling Bert that she was completely off her trolley. _But by Merlin, it just might work._ And in the end, that was what counted.

Because she was _certain_ that the man knew _something_ about Voldemort. _Something that Dumbledore won’t – or can’t – tell us._ Everyone knew the Headmaster of Hogwarts was the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. But now, with Death Eaters stirring, anyone who admitted to knowing anything was a target. _So everyone keeps their mouths shut, and we’re all safer that way._

Right.

Aileen snorted.

 _But it’s the best option I have._ And Bert’s offer was the best she was likely to get, as well. Any idea of support from the Magical government was laughable. Fudge was spineless, unable to make decisions – and thus firmly in the grasp of his completely controlling and utterly cold-hearted new assistant, Dolores Umbridge. Aileen had never met the woman. _And I never want to. Toad._

But more than that – she had no concrete evidence. Just a few ambiguous words in green ink, and a gut feeling. One that had never steered her wrong before. _Now’s not the time to start doubting._

But there was no other word for this plan than _insane._ Maybe _demented._ Quite possibly _doolally._ Definitely _mad.  Dotty, crackers, mental, whacko, loony, bonkers._

She managed to get through a few stops thinking of every synonym she could, and making a few up. It was eight-fifteen when she realized that she’d begun to repeat herself. Groaning softly, Aileen sat up, ready to have another go at her basic criminology text.

 _Another hour before my stop. Why did I ever think this was a good idea?_ The chance to sleep in her own bed, for one. _Of course._

The train stopped once more, and she peered out the window, searching for some point of reference. Sat up, and frowned. _It’s dark out there._ Summer it might be, but the sun was gone. And from what she could tell in the feeble glow of a single lamp-light, this stop was no more than a platform, with a bench for comfort and a small shed that was probably a loo. No shelter from the rain.

 _And no lights, no town. Nothing nearby._ Which begged the question. _Who’s getting off here?_

Curious now, the textbook was absently set aside, and she hit the compartment light switch, running back to the window for a better view.

 _Car._ 1991 model, and with three people piling out. A man and two women, climbing the platform to meet . . . the man who stepped from the train had no luggage. _Jeans,_ she catalogued automatically. _Button-down shirt. About 180 . . . 183 centimeters tall. Blond hair, a bit shaggy, a beard –_

The man turned, as each of the women embraced him in turn, and she caught the profile of his face. A _familiar_ profile. Stunned, Aileen watched him grasp the dark-haired man’s wrist with a smile, and pull him in for a quick hug. The train moved beneath her, and she sank out of sight into her seat, still staring as her window sped by.

 _What in Merlin’s name is Peter Pevensie doing here?_  

 

 

* * *

****_31 July 1994_ ** **

* * *

****_(Ron)_ ** **

* * *

“SURPRISE!”

Harry gaped, staring at the massive amount of people on the lawn. Ron snickered at the expression on his best friend’s face. _Looks like Percy, when he found out that George slipped a Tongue Toffee in his lunch._

Hermione bounced forward, hugging Harry. Ron ran to the rescue, tugging Harry toward the food. His family had all come, and Hermione’s too, and the Pevensies, and Sirius and Remus – they’d planned this, and it was incredible. A mix of magic and quick footwork had kept Harry in the dark until the afternoon meal, when Lucy had announced a picnic.

Ron grinned. _Which was really the lot of us waiting to give him the shock of his life._ “Happy Birthday, Harry!”

He was grinning so hard it looked like his face might split in two. He hadn’t looked this happy since Christmas, first year – when he’d realized that there were presents for him. It made Ron uncomfortable to think about it. So he didn’t. Much.

“Wow!”

“Yeah, isn’t it great?”

“Sirius planned it,” Hermione beamed at them. “Remus and the Pevensies helped. We did too, once they let us in on it. Come on, Mrs. Weasley made so much food – you won’t _believe_ what’s here! And Mum and I made the cake. Happy Birthday, Harry!”

Hours of food and one wild, non-magical water-fight later, Ron was exhausted. _But Fred and George are soaked._ Thanks in large part to a coalition of everyone but Mum, Hermione’s parents, and Susan Pevensie ganging up on them.

“We slaughtered them,” Bill grinned, flipping a sopping ponytail over his shoulder. “Victory!”

Charlie smirked at the twins, who had been relieved of their water guns and were being manhandled over to Mum. “Drowned rats, the pair of ‘em.”

Sirius, Remus, and Edmund were following up behind, gathering the abandoned water guns now that truce had been declared. Peter might have played, but there’d been a ringing noise from some strange Muggle something-or-other. _A felly-tone? Something._ And then his Dad had gotten all excited about it. Mum had kicked him under the table.

“A step up from you,” George shot back, struggling. Bill tightened his grip.

“You look like a Murtlap,” Fred added, nodding at the wet spikes of Charlie’s hair. Ginny giggled. Ron’s eyes narrowed consideringly, thinking of the water-rats with their sea-anemone like growths along the spine. _Actually . . ._

Charlie cuffed him upside the head.

“Hey!”

“I could tell what you were thinking,” his older brother ran a hand over his head to tame the spikes, but only succeeded in making it worse. “And it’d be in your best interests not to go agreeing with them, Ron.” Blue eyes narrowed playfully.

Ron grinned. “Fred’s got a point, Charlie.”

George snickered. “That’s our little brother! Side with the winners, always!”

“The winners?” Ginny scoffed, wringing her shirt out.

“Got you but good.” Fred was unrepentant, despite having both hands captured and held behind his back.

Ginny made a face, sticking her tongue out.

Hermione laughed.

“It’s mutiny, that’s what this is!” Charlie moaned theatrically. “Insubordination!”

“Can it, o mighty dragon tamer,” Fred cut in rudely.

“I’ll _tame_ you, you little -”

“If you manage it,” Ron’s Mum cut her second son off mid-growl, “It’ll be something I’ve been trying to do for sixteen years.”

“Extra helpings for you, Charlie,” Bill snickered.

Mum’s glare withered the twins, who had been gloating at their older brother’s expense. “As for the rest of you.” Molly Weasley smiled. “I think it’s past time for cake, don’t you, Harry?”

Green eyes lit up, and the champions broke ranks in an all-out run for the dessert table. Singing, candles, and fifteen minutes were sufficient to clear all the food, and most of the crumbs, from the table.

 _Oh, I am stuffed._ “If I eat another bite, I’ll bust,” Ron moaned, lying contentedly on the lawn. His clothes were drying slowly in the sun, and a cool breeze was kicking up. He licked his fork, sucking the last sugary icing off and rolling it over his tongue. “S’good cake, Hermione.”

“Mmmm,” Harry agreed, still savoring his chocolate slice.

“Grandmum’s recipe,” Hermione sighed. There was a bit of icing still on her cheek, and she twisted her face up, trying to reach it with her tongue before giving up and grabbing for a napkin.

“I still can’t believe you got a _Firebolt_!” Ron felt overawed. _The most fantastic racing broom yet._

Sirius had gotten it for Harry, to make up, as he said, for thirteen years’ worth of missed Christmas and birthday presents. Harry didn’t care, flinging his arms around his godfather and squeezing. _I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harry give anyone else a hug._ It had been . . . weird. Uncomfortable, but good too.  

Green eyes shone with delight. “Me either. Want to try it, tomorrow?”

They were all staying over for a few days. Then, in a few weeks, Hermione, Harry and Sirius would stay with the Weasleys during the World Cup. That had been Ron’s present to Harry. “Do I ever!”     

“Thank you,” Harry added, again.

Ron rolled his eyes. “You’ve been saying that all day. It’s your birthday, you git!”

“Ron,” Hermione scolded. But she had her eyes shut and was grinning, just a little.

The pile of gifts also held clothes and a few Muggle items from the Pevensies, along with a Quidditch practice set. Hermione’s Broomstick Servicing Kit had been well appreciated, though there was nothing to be done for the brand-new Firebolt. She’d just smiled, said she’d seen Harry play Quidditch and he’d need it soon enough. A book on Animagi from Remus sat alongside a collar and leash – a gag gift that was pure Marauders, judging from the look on Sirius’s face when Harry had opened the brightly-wrapped package. Ron only wished he could be around for his revenge.

He lay back on the grass, completely stuffed. “Happy Birthday, Harry.”

“Yeah.” His best friend grinned fit to split his face in half.

Hermione yawned, rolling over to peer under the table. She was soaked too, but not as badly as him or Harry. _Typical that Hermione would come off better than any of us._ “Harry, Ron, look at that.”

“What’s that?” Ron pushed to elbows, squinting against the sunset. Dying light reflected brightly off metal; he blinked as it flashed brightly into his eyes. The Pevensie brothers were mucking about with something – he couldn’t quite see -

Harry rubbed an overstuffed stomach as he twisted to follow their confused gazes. “Oh, that. A broadsword.”

“A what?”

“You’re kidding.”

Messy black hair shook a negative. “Nah. Peter’s been teaching me some.”

He could finally make out the shapes of sharpened metal, as the sun slipped just a tad lower on the horizon. _Teaching you – that?_ Ron stared. _No wonder you never really told us what you were about, what with the look on Hermione’s face._

Harry picked at the grass. His face was a bit red. “S’nothing,” he mumbled. “Just something to do.”

He should have felt insulted that his best friend had kept this from him. But – it was Harry’s birthday. And he’d trusted them with his godfather’s safety. _It’s not that big a deal,_ he decided. And let curiosity win. “Let’s have a look, then.” Hermione frowned at him, but he managed to roll to his feet. “C’mon.”

She let him pull her up from the grass, and Harry followed. “Is that chainmail?”

 _At least she’s interested._ Though with Hermione, the shock would be if she wasn’t.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Peter said they wear it when they spar, but I haven’t actually seen it.”

Closer, Ron eyed the two men shrugging into heavy metal shirts. _Looks uncomfortable._

Mum had a tight grip on Fred and George, who had identical expressions of puckish glee on their faces. Bill and Charlie settled onto the grass to watch, as the Grangers and Lucy and Susan Pevensie pulled lawn chairs over. Ron dropped nearby his brothers, with his friends and Ginny following.

“They’re not sharp, are they?” His little sister’s eyes were very wide. 

“Of course not,” Hermione soothed.

“Dunno,” Harry shrugged. “Probably not. It’s just practice.”

Edmund was stretching a bit, as Peter resettled a plain shield on his arm. Ron blinked. _Practice? So they’re not actually going to –_

“Ready?” Lucy Pevensie, who appeared to be the referee. Ron didn’t really know any of them, though what he’d seen of them and what he’d heard from Ginny about Lucy and Edmund was all good. He shrugged, chin on hands to watch. _They helped Ginny. That’s all I care about._

“Are you?” Edmund called back, hefting his blade with a practiced swing.

Ginny’s first year at Hogwarts had been . . . awful. She would still wake up sometimes with screaming nightmares. _About Voldemort._ What rankled was that there was really nothing that the family could do, though they tried.

“Just like Oreius showed us.”

“ _En guarde!_ ” Shields came up, weapons at the ready.

“They say that every time they spar,” Harry whispered, but Ron was staring at the two men, every sign of levity gone as they circled in the grass.

Edmund was the first to move, a sly swing Peter blocked on his shield. Edmund dodged the thrusted riposte, and the two metal edges met for the first time with a shockingly loud _clang!_

Ron winced; from his left came a startled yelp. _Hermione._ Ginny clapped hands over her ears in surprise.

But his attention was caught again by the dazzling gleam of light over metal. The two men swung and hammered at one another in a fight that grew more like a dance each minute. _Bloody dangerous,_ he decided as Edmund ducked a swing that could have taken his head off. Ron could make out snatches of conversation – “Sword point _up_ , Ed!” and “Know the ground, Peter!” as the blond man slipped and went down, rolling away from a downward swing before gaining his feet again.

It was incredibly cool.

“Are they _insane?_ ” Hermione hissed. Her brown hair was drying into a frizzy bush, puffing out even more than normal. She looked frazzled.

“Nah, they know what they’re doing,” Harry answered.

Off to the side, Ron could hear Charlie trading quiet remarks with Bill about technique and style. _How do they_ know _that?_ But it was a safe bet that Mum didn’t know how interested her two eldest were in the dangerous art. _Which gives me enough leverage to get them to talk to me about it,_ Ron calculated. As the youngest of his brothers, he’d take what he could get. And he’d be asking them about it the first chance he got.

Blue eyes slid back to the fight.

Which was just as abruptly over, as in a surprise twist of his blade, Edmund managed to disarm Peter. The broadsword flew away from them in a glittering arc to disappear into the grass. Panting, the blond man knelt. Ron frowned uneasily, as the tip of the other’s blade rested at his throat.

For long moments, the only sound was that of harsh breathing.

_What’s going on?_

“I yield,” Peter said finally.

The shining blade lowered, and Edmund let out a tense breath.

“Nice,” Charlie breathed, clambering to his feet. Bill nodded.

“Huh?” Ron stared. Peter gained his feet, and the two brothers embraced. Even listening, Ron just barely caught the exchange. 

_“Well done, Ed.”_

_“Pay attention next time, Peter, huh?”_

“The fight wasn’t over just because Peter lost his sword,” Bill explained. Fred and George traded confused glances as they hauled Ginny to her feet. Hermione brushed at grass sticking to her jeans.

“He still had his shield,” Charlie agreed. His hair had dried into stiff spines that refused to admit the existence of gravity. He saw his Mum discreetly point a camera their way, and smirked.

Edmund was now wriggling free of the confining metal shirt; Peter had already discarded his, retrieved his weapon and was running a soft cloth along honed steel.

 “What good would that do?” Hermione clearly didn’t think much of anyone’s chances without a bladed weapon. _Neither do I, come to think of it._ No wands? Without that sword, you were pretty much dead –

“Helluva lot, if you know what you’re doing.”

“Which they do,” Charlie added, heading over. “He could have blocked the killing strike, used the shield as a weapon or to hold Edmund off long enough to get his sword back.”

Ron blinked, as the two eldest Weasleys approached the Pevensie brothers. “How do they _know_ that? Mum’d kill them.”

George snickered. “That’s for us to know, and you to find out, ickle Ronniekins.”

He managed a glare at the twins. “You’re lucky I’m too full to move.”

“Are we now?”

The challenge was clear.

Ron gave Hermione and Harry the barest glances; green and brown eyes backed him. _Three, two, one -_ On an unspoken signal, the trio burst to their feet and charged Fred and George, screaming wild war-whoops to the sky.

 

 

* * *

****_2 August 1994_ ** **

* * *

****_(Lucy)_ ** **

* * *

 

“And that’s the last of it,” Susan sighed, closing the refrigerator decidedly.

 It was Wednesday night, and the last of the guests from Sunday’s party had finally gone. “That ‘temporary floo’ was a bit of a mess.” Lucy plopped into a chair at the table. “I’m so glad Molly waited until everyone left.”

Susan nodded, dark ponytail bobbing. “That spell she used – Scourgify?”

Lucy nodded, sipping at a cup of tea she’d made and forgotten, hours ago. _Cold._ But still good.

“It would have taken us hours to clean that mess.”

She murmured an agreement.

Molly had Apparated home after taking care not to leave the Pevensies with a soot-filled room, courtesy of the favor Arthur had called in with some of his friends in the Magical Transportation Department. The Mansion had been hooked up to the Floo Network for their arrival and departure, since the twins, Ron, and Ginny were too young to Apparate. Percy had been quite amusing to watch, as he Apparated everywhere. _‘Just to show off,’ the twins said._ Lucy hid a smile in cold Earl Grey. _Though they might be right, at that._

“Are Peter and Edmund still clearing up outside?” Susan asked after a moment, playing with the handle of her own teacup.

“Probably,” Lucy sighed. “Taking down the tent, and putting the tables and chairs in one of the spare rooms.” _Though there aren’t many of those here, what with Sirius, Remus, and Harry._ And there was one spare room that would – as long as they lived – remain almost empty. _Except for a wardrobe._

“I liked having them here.” Her sister smiled, and Lucy grinned back. Queen Susan the Gentle was peering out at her from behind the scientist’s eyes, where she’d been hiding for the past twenty years.

“Me too. It was a lot of work, but I haven’t had so much fun in ages.”

“It reminded me a little of holidays in Narnia,” Susan admitted.

Lucy pushed her teacup aside, sitting straight on the wooden bench. Susan so rarely talked about Narnia . . . _I know she doesn’t remember much. She didn’t_ want _to, for the longest time._ Lucy wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. “How?”

Her older sister fiddled with the saucer, finally rising to dump it all in the sink, and turn the water on. “Just the – the friendliness,” she called over her shoulder. Not acknowledging Lucy’s gaze. “To be able to talk, and laugh, and not have to worry about anything.”

 _Susan, has it been so long since you trusted anyone?_ Lucy thought sadly. She sipped again at her cold drink. “And that reminded you of home?”

“Of Narnia,” Susan agreed.

 _That_ is _home, Susan. When will you see it?_ But she remembered what Peter had told her, many months ago, and didn’t push. _Later. There’ll be time._

“Are you done with your tea?”

She swallowed the last chill gulp, and brought the dishes to the sink. “My turn,” she grinned, easing the older woman away from soap and running water. “Go sit; you must be dead on your feet.”

Susan didn’t need much urging. “It has been a long few days,” she admitted, sliding out a chair and plunking gracelessly down.

Footsteps in the hall heralded Edmund’s arrival. “Found a few more dishes,” he announced, trooping them over to the counter.

“Where were they?” she asked absently, upending teacups in the drying rack. Lucy reached for the first of the dirty plates as her dark-haired brother cast about for a dishtowel.

“Hiding in the grass,” Edmund said dryly, wiping a teacup. “The Weasley twins thought it might be interesting to enchant them to mimic frogs.” 

Lucy stared at him. Glared warily at the slippery, sud-covered plate in her hands. “They didn’t.”

“They did,” Peter corrected, entering the kitchen with three more plates and a few forks. “But that’s the last of them.”

“How did you get them to stop?” Susan queried suspiciously. One hand hefted a dishcloth, and the other, a broom – in case of attack.

“The enchantment unraveled as soon as we touched them,” Peter shrugged. Blond brows drew down in a scowl. “We just had to _catch_ them first.”

 _Don’t laugh,_ Lucy scolded herself. There was a wealth of aggravation in Peter’s voice. But still – _I wish I’d seen that!_

“Leaping all over the lawn,” Edmund confirmed, drying the first of the saucers. “Hiding in the grass, burping out ribbetting noises. Lu!”

“I can’t help it, Edmund,” she got out around giggles. “Just the thought of you two jumping all around the lawn after them -” She ducked a dishtowel whipping her way, and splashed back some water at the offending brother.

“The enchantment . . . unraveled?” Susan sounded confused, turning to Peter.

He combed his fingers through shaggy blond hair. _I’ll never stop being glad that they wear it like they did back home._ It might not be fashionable now for men to have such long hair – Edmund’s was down over his ears. Peter’s was just a bit longer, since he hadn’t grown out his bangs as Ed had. It usually fell in a golden halo around his face – something she occasionally teased him about. _Who needs a guardian angel anyway, when we have Peter? And it_ does _look a little like a mane._ Edmund had agreed. “It’s something from Narnia,” Peter told Susan. “Around us, magic sort of -”

“Runs screaming in the other direction,” Edmund put in, passing a stack of dishes off to Peter.

“Nullifies,” Lucy offered. “Becomes undone.” And at Susan’s puzzled expression, her lips quirked. “We’re not explaining this very well, are we?”

“We don’t really know how it works,” Peter admitted. “We just know the basics.”

“We’re completely unaffected by spells.” Lucy turned off the water, drying her hands.

“We can interact with magic without undoing it,” Edmund added, drying the last of the plates. He frowned, hanging the dishtowel on a hook by the sink. “Unless we think about it, if that makes any sense. If we _try_ to undo it, it happens.” He nodded at the plates.

“And we can see things that most Muggles can’t,” Peter finished. “Hogwarts, for one.” She knew he wouldn’t mention other, darker things that they could see – things that not even all wizards could see. Things like Dementors. _And Thestrals._

“Hogwarts.” There was a strange tone in Susan’s voice. _As if she’s reaching for a memory, but it’s slipping from her._ “The school the Weasley children go to?”

“Yes,” Lucy nodded, slipping back into a chair. _Why can’t you remember, Susan?_ Though she supposed that wasn’t fair. Lucy had loved visiting Hogwarts, meeting new people and exploring the castle. For her sister, the memories were much darker.

“Hmm.” Dark hair shook, tossing away an unwanted thought. Blue eyes focused in, sparking with intellectual interest, as Peter put away the last of the dishes and slid onto the bench next to Edmund. “How do you -”

A chime cut through her comment.

Lucy blinked. _It’s coming from –_

Peter pulled a cellular phone from his pocket, and his face tightened. He clambered over the bench, heading for the hall and better reception. “Sorry. I’ll be right back.”  

“Who is it?”

Peter paused, hand on the door. “My boss.”

The door swung shut, and Lucy traded a puzzled glance with Edmund. It didn’t help that he was just as concerned as she.

Susan frowned. “Who _does_ Peter work for? I don’t think he’s ever mentioned it to me.”

“He’s a criminal profiler.” Edmund rubbed one finger along the edge of the table. The wood was dark and shiny with oils from many hands – like all the wood in this kitchen. It was old, but solidly built; slate slabs made up the floor and the wood was all oak. “He works for the government, actually, but he doesn’t really talk about it. He signed a nondisclosure statement when he was hired.”

_And that pretty well explains that._

But Susan’s blue eyes were thoughtful. Filled with a cold logic. “Was that wise?”

Lucy wiped the frown off her face; saw Edmund struggle to do the same. _She’ll understand once we explain. She wasn’t here. Have patience._ “Actually –”

The door opened, cutting her off.

 _Peter looks tired._ Lucy frowned at the expression on the eldest Pevensie’s face. “Is everything alright?”

He leant in the doorjamb, arms folded. “I have to catch an early train back into London tomorrow. They need me to work on a new project.”

“That’s not all, is it?”  Edmund, but his face was dark. Lucy stared. _What are you talking about?_

Peter sighed. “Ed -”

“You’ve been worried ever since you came home,” the younger man cut him off. _Blunt words. But that’s Edmund._ “And on Sunday you got a phone call from someone, right before we sparred. Even when we were just kids, you’ve _never_ been that distracted in a fight, Peter.”

Lucy saw the look in his eyes, and dread lodged in her throat. _He’s certain something’s not right._ She was on the edge of her seat. “Peter?”

Susan was watching them all, her face blank.

“Yes. Well.” He blew out a breath, left hand dropping to rest on the hilt of a sword that was no longer there. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to do.”

“About?” Edmund, gentle where he had been so direct only a minute ago. Probing for answers.

Lucy shifted back, fingers interlacing on the tabletop. _I wish I had a cup of tea._ “Is everything alright?” She frowned. _Why is he staying there?_ It wasn’t like Peter to be so standoffish. But he showed no inclination to move closer, as he usually would.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “When I came back from my extended leave, I went through the usual debrief. It’s standard procedure, before being put back to work on a provisional basis.” Shoulders rose and fell, and Lucy shivered. _This is the Peter that the Narnian court sees,_ she realized. The Peter who was confident, and in control. Not the man, who had faults, fears, and doubts. _Why, Peter? We’re your family._

“I was a little suspicious when I was sent in for a second debriefing, but I put it down to having missed something important. We _were_ gone for eleven months; it was possible that I’d been absent for a key event that had changed protocol, and no one remembered to tell me about it.” He took a deep breath. Picked his words carefully. “Only when the – interviewer – came in, she was a witch.”

Lucy stifled a gasp. Saw Edmund tense.

Susan’s face was very still. “Someone from the Magical government?”

A slow nod. Lucy didn’t understand what she was seeing in blue eyes – a swirl of confusion and uncertainty and pain. _Peter’s afraid._ And that in turn made her afraid.

“Dumbledore apparently mentioned me, at the very least, in a letter to the Ministry,” Peter continued softly. “The witch was very interested in where I was this summer – but stated flat out that she thought I was at Hogwarts. I denied everything, and the paper trail corroborates my story. But there’s a chance that she’ll try asking again.”

“And?”

Lucy started. _There’s more?_ But Edmund’s face was not that of her brother, but of a King of Narnia as well. _And he’s right._

“And the witch’s name is Aileen Macready. I did some checking.” Peter held up a hand to forestall questions. “She’s the granddaughter of Finola Macready, who was employed as a housekeeper for Professor Digory Kirke, from 1932 until 1955, when she went to live with her son’s family due to poor health.”

“What’ve you _done?_ ”

Lucy started, head jerking toward Susan. Edmund too turned and stared. “Susan?”

Her older sister ignored her to glare at Peter in disgusted dismay. “Why on earth would you even go to work for the government? You _know_ they do background checks! We have so much to lose – that was _foolish,_ Peter!”

“Susan!” Lucy cried.

Her voice was rising, and there was a flush in her cheeks. “And now this! Not only might the government find out about us, but these magical people are looking into us too! Do you have any idea what could –”

“Susan,” Edmund tried.

But she would not be quieted. “Not only are we freaks by regular standards, but we’re abnormal even to the magical people! I’m a scientist – do you know what _happens_ to test subjects in labs?! Did you even _think_ , Peter?!”

He spoke quietly. “That’s enough.”

“No,” she snapped back. Lucy couldn’t believe it. Edmund’s eyes were narrowing. And she hadn’t seen Peter so pale since the river; they’d been trapped by cracking ice and growling wolves, and he’d been torn, pulled by competing needs of everyone around him, the knowledge that they could all die, that he had to do _something_ –

“That’s not good enough, Peter,” Susan’s hands were clenched white on the arms of her chair. “I need to know what’s going to happen.”

 _You didn’t care two months ago!_ Lucy felt like shouting. Edmund opened his mouth, and she grabbed at his sleeve, shaking her head.

“Nothing is going to happen,” Peter told them quietly. “At least not to you, or Lucy or Edmund.”

“What?” _Peter?_ Lucy felt Edmund’s hand, warm and comforting, over her own.

“I’m down as having no family in the government records,” Peter said distantly. Wounded blue eyes wouldn’t meet hers; he stared out a far window. “My official background lists me as an only child, parents deceased, only living relations in America.”

“I guess that’s something then,” Susan murmured, bone-white pressure easing its grip on darkened wood.

Lucy saw Peter flinch back; a barely-there motion that Susan completely missed. But Edmund didn’t, and dark eyes narrowed. He continued without pausing. “There’s no connection between me and the Mansion. I keep my copy of the deed and the Professor’s will here, so there’s nothing that can be traced back to you.”

“You’re sure?”

 _Susan!_ Lucy almost snapped at her sister; this time, it was Edmund who held her back. _I do not believe this._

“Yes.”

Dark hair nodded once. When she spoke, her voice was markedly calmer. “What are you going to do?” But Lucy was furious. _I can’t believe she didn’t even let us explain –_

“I’ll handle it,” Peter said tightly.

Susan snorted, softly. “I’ve heard _that_ from you before.”

 _Peter used to argue back. When did that stop?_ When she left us, Lucy realized. _When she let herself be driven away because we didn’t want to give up Narnia. But we didn’t want to give her up either!_ And now – none of them wanted to drive her away again.

But when she was causing so much hurt, so thoughtlessly . . . _Where did Queen Susan the Gentle go?_ Lucy wanted to cry. _How do I get my sister back?_

Peter nodded, curtly. “There are some things I need to do. Good night.”

And once again, there were three where there should have been four. _Only a different three._ Lucy was stunned by the hasty violence of it all; the emotions still ripped wildly through the room. _Or maybe it’s just for me and Edmund._

With four, it was impossible not to take sides in a fight.

Susan sighed, then. “I’m sorry.”

Edmund squeezed Lucy’s hand, and stood. “I’m going to find Peter,” he whispered in her ear. And louder, “We’re not the ones you should be apologizing to.”

 

 

* * *

****_3 August 1994_ ** **

* * *

****_(Sirius)_ ** **

* * *

Instinct was screaming at him. _And there’s nothing I can do about it._ He hissed out a breath. “Are we there yet?”

Remus looked over at him, amused.

Harry grinned from between the two Marauders. “It’s nice that they’re not all staring at me for once.”

Sirius snorted, glancing around Diagon Alley. Where his eyes went, conversation abruptly cut off, and the witches and wizards strove to look as though they were just going about their business. At his back, however, the whispers had a life of their own. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes, well, the papers have had quite a lot to say about the trial.” Remus, damn him, wasn’t bothering to hide his grin at the discomfiture of his fellow Marauder. “It’s probably the ten thousand galleons they put up as a price on your head, Sirius. They’re curious if they can still collect.”

He almost snarled. “Moony, as soon as I get a wand -”

“There’s Ollivander’s!” Harry interrupted.

They’d come to almost the end of the Diagon Alley, collecting Harry’s school supplies along the way. “You’re sure you have everything?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was a smile he couldn’t hide. “For the _sixth_ time, Sirius, yes!”

“It’s a good thing you were rushing us through the stores,” Remus added.

Sirius glared, and waited.

The other Marauder held up placating hands, a genuinely innocent expression on his face. “No, really. I saw Lucius Malfoy go into Flourish and Blotts just as we left.”

He stiffened, and relaxed, blowing out a breath. _And you’re not an Auror anymore, even though it feels like you never left. Hexing an ‘involuntary’ Death Eater isn’t the greatest way to get the papers to stop talking about you._ Talking to himself was an old habit. At least, as old as Azkaban. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Harry made a face. “I met him, once. Draco’s a lot like him.”

Ollivander’s was only two doors down. He could see the sign – _‘Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.’_ Sirius shrugged; he’d never seen the Malfoy heir. A glance at Remus, however, made him raise an interested eyebrow. “Moony?”

“I don’t know if I would say that,” Remus said slowly. Green eyes were peering interestedly up at them, and Remus shook his head. “Edmund’s been speaking with him,” he explained.

“Oh,” Harry frowned. He shifted his packages, and Sirius relieved him of another one so that the pile was more lightly balanced in his godson’s favor. A quick grin thanked him. “Why?”

Remus shook his head. “I haven’t asked.”

“And here we are,” Sirius breathed, pushing through the door in relief. A bell _clang_ ed gently, alerting the shopkeeper. “Thank Merlin.”

Harry snickered.

Sirius reached out to tousle messy black hair. “If I have to go much longer without a wand, I’ll -”

“Hex yourself, yes, we know,” Remus laughed.

Sirius settled the parcels on the side, and Harry perched against the wide windowsill next to them. He turned, and came face-to-face with Ollivander. Sirius blinked.

The man looked surprisingly unchanged from the last time Sirius had seen him; admittedly, that was over twenty years ago. Wild white hair bushed above a wrinkled, whiskery face. “Sirius Black. Ebony and phoenix feather, was it? Eleven inches, and quite elastic, as I remember.”

“It was.” _First wand._ It had _fit_ his soul, in the same way the Marauders had fit. Perfect and terrifying and comforting, wound into eleven inches of wood and magic. Bound up in four souls. _But I’ve changed._

Ollivander raised a brow. “Powerful wand, that one. Perfect for the Dark Arts – or defending against them.”

Sirius checked his anger, though to those who could read him, Moony’s sudden rage was evident in the calmness of his face, and an irritated twitch of one thumb. Harry scowled, green eyes sparking.

“That was a long time ago,” Sirius deadpanned. The patience Azkaban had forced into him was being put to good use. Though the temptation to change forms and take a chunk out of something had his hackles up, he simply raised one brow. “I need another wand.”

“Of course, of course.” And Ollivander was off in a whirl of musty robes, raising a dust cloud that had Harry sneezing.

Sirius eyed the measuring tape snaking about him, listening as the old man rummaged about the back shelves packed full of boxes of wands. There were as many different wands here as anyone could ask for – a blessing, he supposed, and hoped that he’d be able to get out of here in the same reasonable amount of time his first trip had taken. _Though Harry wasn’t as lucky_ – Sirius winced. What with Lily and James being as straightforward as they were, it was more than likely that Harry’s difficulty finding the wand had driven the old wand-maker to distraction. _That’s Voldemort’s doing._

“Here we are.”

Sirius eyed the many boxes in Ollivanders’ arms with distaste. _Surely, he doesn’t think it will take that many!_ The tape measure had long since ceased its rapid whirrings, though what information it had given the store’s proprietor, Sirius couldn’t tell.

 _I’ve changed –_ Azkaban had seen to that – _but have I changed that much?_

Apparently so. The first attempt, a wand nearly identical to his first, sparked and flared only weakly. And perhaps it was a sign of the change in him that he didn’t mourn it as he thought he would. “Not quite.”

And then it began.

Holly and phoenix feather caused a short fire; one that was over-extinguished by ash and unicorn hair.

“Perhaps -” Ollivander held out a mahogany wand.

It twitched in his fingers, and he nearly dropped it. Did so, after it shot out a bolt of power that exploded a pot, sending dirt and the plant within it scattering to ancient wood boards.

“Definitely not. Here.”

It felt _wrong_ in his hands; Sirius fit it into the velvet box without even trying, shaking his head.  

“What about -”

Anything made with apple wood proved disastrous; too easily molded, the spells shot wildly from his control. Similarly, unicorn hair overcompensated every attempt; and Sirius was left in a rare bout of humor as Remus’ brows climbed higher on his head, and Harry took to chorusing, “No!” on every try.

A particularly whippy wand, of cedar and dragon heartstring, whose abnormal length of fifteen inches had Remus snickering and Sirius praying, _Dear Merlin, no!_ ended up hitting Harry’s foot with an engorgement charm. Remus was able to correct the situation with a quick counter-spell, but his godson was much warier after that.

“Well, there’s some progress at least,” Ollivander murmured.

But other wands meant for such niceties as Charms failed spectacularly, which apparently was the source of Ollivander’s dismay. While suited for the Dark Arts, his old wand had also been excellent in Transfiguration.

A half an hour’s more worth of attempts had them narrowing down the pattern; dragon heartstring. It seemed to be that the wood was the problematic aspect of it.

“Oak -”

“No.”

“Yew?”

That one nearly self-destructed as it touched his fingers. “ _No!_ ”

“Elm -”

“No.”

“Hazel.”

Sirius shook his head. “No!” Harry chirped, taking over for him.

“Birch.”

“Nope.” His godson was grinning fiendishly. Remus had taken to re-packing and stacking the discarded pile of wands. It was nearing Ollivander’s height, and the hunched wizard was eying it with the air of a man regarding a stiff challenge.

“Willow.”

“Nah.”

“Rowan -”

“No!” Harry sang out, automatic by now.

Sirius frowned, turning the wand over in his hand. Held it a moment; a breeze, strange indoors, ruffled his hair.

“Sirius?” Remus’ blue eyes met his, and he pushed the frown away.

“Almost,” he said quietly.

At that, Ollivander’s strange, intent eyes narrowed. Harry, still not quite immune from the curiosity of Ollivander’s shop, arguably the most important in Diagon Alley, twisted to watch as the owner disappeared through a back door without warning.

Sirius sighed, and placed the last wand back. Remus took it from him, settling it on the pile. “Impressive, Padfoot,” he commented. His friend glanced a moment at his own wand, then back at the other. “Was your first trip anything like this?”

Sirius shook black strands out of his face. “Maybe fifteen minutes,” he admitted. The sun was beginning to lower; Diagon Alley was emptying. “This is unbelievable.”

“Didn’t even take me this long,” Harry added.

“Particularly challenging,” Ollivander announced, the back door slamming ungraciously behind him. He held out a box, and Sirius opened it.

The wand lying inside was a strange silver-white, almost glowing against the dark velvet nestled around it. Completely unlike the various hues of brown and tan comprising every other wand he’d seen.

“Aspen,” Ollivander said quietly.

Remus stared. “Surely, that can’t be -”

Sirius gripped smooth wood, and something _clicked_ in his soul. A jet of sparks shot from the tip, and he realized that he was smiling.

“Aspen, and heartstring from a Hebridean Black,” Ollivander nodded triumphantly. “Unusual combination.” And strange eyes focused on Sirius. “Very rare, I should think. But none better for defense.” 

There was a chill in the room; Sirius shuddered.

 

 

* * *

****_(Draco)_ ** **

* * *

“You asked to see me, Father?” _Not good. Very not good._ Especially with the sun up, though it shone only gently on this side of the house. He was supposed to be practicing for Quidditch, now that he’d gotten all his work done. In a safer place, Draco would have sneered at that. _It was done for weeks._ _I just needed to do a little extra research._ And he couldn’t excuse keeping the books for that.

_They can’t even know._

“Yes, I did.”

Which was why he was standing on a luxurious carpet before his father’s massive desk, waiting.   _This is not good._ Discovery – and it didn’t matter _what_ they caught him at – _any_ of it was worth a severe beating. _Besides, that list is getting longer and longer . . ._

His hidden, mental list of things he was doing, or had done, that would demand _reprisals._

But he wasn’t going to think of that – not now when he had to stare into his father’s eyes and do his best to manipulate the truth. He might know _of_ Occlumency, but that didn’t mean he had any skill at repelling Legilimency. And his father was the highest ranking Death Eater still free, with the possible exception of Severus Snape. So _of course_ he knew how to peer into unwilling thoughts. _The question is how well._

But his father didn’t seem interested in an interrogation. So it was quite possible that Draco was here for something else entirely –

And the silence had gone on for a very long time. _I won’t move, I won’t._ Father liked being in power. Liked making others nervous . . . . The carpet underfoot was soft, deeply green, and very thick. Draco shifted his weight.

“I wanted to speak with you about what you are doing to maintain the Malfoy name at Hogwarts,” his father said abruptly.

Draco started, taken completely off guard. “Hogwarts?”

“On the Quidditch pitch,” Lucius confirmed. He still hadn’t looked at Draco; his attention instead on the various papers neatly categorized across shining mahogany.

“We’re the best team at Hogwarts,” Draco instantly defended his team. _Even though that’s a lie. Flint wouldn’t know strategy if it –_ he cut off the obscene thought. “We’ve never lost a match to Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff -”

“But never won against Gryffindor,” his father interrupted calmly. A quill made of eagle-feather was gently set aside. Light blue eyes found him, with all the force of a basilisk’s stare.

“Gryffindor’s got passable Beaters, even if they are Weasleys. And their Keeper knows his way about a broom,” he grudgingly admitted. “But Slytherin’s a better team -”

“One wouldn’t know it, judging by how many times you’ve won the Quidditch Cup.”

_None._

“Dumbledore favors them.” He tried to emulate the bratty superiority he’d had a year ago; the certainty in his name and his place and his heritage that made him better than the rest of the world. And he braced himself; the waiting was the worst part.

Lucius was the picture of refined elegance, reclining in his chair with blond hair spilling over his shoulders. _Dangerous,_ Draco shivered. Others might mistake that chill calm for true ease. But it was only a mask of ice, hiding from view the torrents raging beneath. “No,” he said softly.

Draco tried not to flinch. _Father hates weakness._ Another voice warned, cautioning – _And he loves fear._

“It’s their Seeker. Harry Potter.”

And this was where it became Draco’s problem. He fixed his eyes on the silver paperweight on his father’s desk; a rearing cobra, hood and fangs bared for the strike. “He’s been beaten -”

“ _You_ are Slytherin’s Seeker. If you must continually _lose_ to him, you will no longer play.”

Two pairs of eyes met and locked. Forgetting himself in a rush of sickly shock, Draco sputtered, “ _What?_ But -”

 “But you continue to shame your heritage, every time a half-blood sends you sulking off the pitch,” Lucius snarled. The suddenness of the explosion spurted adrenaline and fear through him, snapping his mouth shut. One quick breath, and Father sat back, controlled once more.

His fists shook, out of sight. “If I had more time to practice -”

Father cut the attempt at a protest off at the knees. “No. This year is a probationary trial, for you. If Slytherin cannot beat Gryffindor and win the Quidditch Cup, you will resign your position at the end of the year.”

“But -”

He stopped, recognizing the dangerous light in blue eyes.

“Do not question me, boy.”

“No, sir.”

And for many, many tense moments he stood there, sweat gathering on his face and under his arms, even though Lucius had turned his eyes to his desk. _He’s still watching,_ the voice warned him. _I know._ Waiting for Draco to crack, to ask to be dismissed. It was an old, old game. Not one he’d had to play for awhile, which probably explained it.

Blue eyes looked up, and caught on him as if surprised. “You’re still here?” Blue narrowed. “Go.”

A stiff bow, and he was as free as he ever was. Draco had barely gotten out before he felt the wards slam up behind him, blocking the study from sight and sound. _At least, to anyone else._

But for now, he didn’t have time to find out what his father was up to.

Draco found shaky safety in the bathroom connected to his room. The fourth level of Malfoy Manor had held the nursery and the children’s bedrooms; he still went to Nothos’ at times, needing reassurance that would never come. Their parents rarely ascended this high; the master bedroom was in the opposite wing of the house, but that didn’t mean anything. _What with house-elves and magic, why should they climb up here when they can find out everything I’m doing without bothering?_

Almost everything.

 _Everything they want to see, at any rate. Everything_ I _want them to see._

But he didn’t fool himself. He would be discovered – the only question was when. _And I’m going to do my damndest to make sure that’s not for a very,_ very _long time._

Because not only was what he was most recently up to highly illegal and dangerous, but it was also something Lucius would use to his advantage if he could.

Draco’s lip rose from his teeth in an unconscious snarl. _I’ll die first. It’s not for him!_

It was for Nothos.

And because of him.

Draco rinsed out his mouth in the sink, sucking greedily from the faucet. Washed cold fear-sweat from too-pale features, and let stray droplets draw white-blond hair into soft, golden spikes.

_I miss him._

It was an idea his brother had hatched when Draco was younger; right before Nothos was killed, in fact. _I don’t know where he heard about it._ And for all that Nothos had been younger than he was now when coming up with the idea, it was still flawless, as far as Draco could tell. But then, he’d been researching it for the last six years, ever since the funeral.  

Draco sat at his own desk, pulling a last textbook closer. _He wanted us to become Animagi together. And together, we’d run off, never be caught – do whatever we wanted._

A bit fanciful, maybe, but in one thing there was no doubt – he would have freedom. Not a lot, and not all the time, but more than he’d had since his brother was killed.

He checked the reference one more time, and eased the cover shut in satisfaction. He might not be able to get all the proper ingredients for the potion, and he needed to practice the basics for the accompanying spell, which was highly advanced Transfiguration. And he couldn’t do either at the Manor. _But I can at Hogwarts._

It was a month away, but . . .

_I can wait. I have to._

            


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

****_4 August 1994_ ** **

* * *

****_(Susan)_ ** **

* * *

The sun was hot on her neck, and her back ached. Susan yanked at another weed, sitting on her heels in the flowerbed. Sweat stung her eyes.

_Well, that’s finished._

Red flashed behind leaded windows – Lucy, walking through the sitting room inside. Susan hefted the basket of weeds, and moved toward the compost on the edge of the lawn.

Neither Lucy nor Edmund was troubling to talk to her this morning, after Peter had left. She hadn’t spoken with him either; she was still so angry at him. _How could he? He’s put all of us at risk!_

As he had when refusing to leave Narnia when they first entered, and even when they really should have gone back, after finding Tumnus’ home ransacked by the police. She remembered that, remembered the shock of violence and the threat. _He ignored it then, just as he’s doing now._

She remembered how disbelief thrilled through her, when Father Christmas had handed Peter that sword. _What a mistake!_ Disbelief, and fear. She _knew_ that Peter tended to rush into things; he was like Lucy that way.

She emptied the basket into the moulding pile of food scraps, dirt, and old leaves. Always, in Narnia, Lucy had plunged so happily into the strangeness of that world, with Peter a mere step behind. After that nightmare with the White Witch, Edmund had been right on their heels, and _none_ of them had even paused to think of what might come of their actions.

Only her. _And I was alone, even then._ Basket swinging at her side, Susan headed for the Mansion.

Only now they weren’t in a magical world with prophecies to guide them and Aslan to look after them, making sure it all turned out alright. This was _reality_ , and terrible things happened if you didn’t _think._

_I won’t let anything happen to them. I can’t lose them again._ They would thank her for it later, she knew it.

She set her basket on the counter, marveling at how different the room looked with sunlight spilling across the slate floors, lightening oak to a pleasant golden glow. Scrubbing at the dirt beneath her fingernails, she didn’t hear the kitchen door swing open.

“Susan.”

“Oh!” Water sprayed across the countertops. She glanced over her shoulder, heart racing. _They look serious._ “You scared me!”

Lucy blotted stray droplets as Edmund handed her a towel. Wiping her hands, she took in identical, intent expressions that started at two pairs of brown eyes and spilled outward. “What is it?”

_I think I already know._

“We need to talk,” Edmund said bluntly. “About the argument you had with Peter.”

Susan sighed, dipped her head in a nod, and sat. “I’m sorry you saw that -”

“Don’t treat us like children,” Lucy broke in, taking a seat next to Edmund. Across from her.

She sputtered, rearing back against stiff wood. “I’m not -”

“We don’t need to be protected.” Edmund, with all the subtlety of a train wreck.

Blue eyes narrowed at the double-team. It was obvious where this was going. “It needed to be said. And I knew you would never see it, but Peter can be reckless at times.”

Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Reckless?”

_And now they’re taking sides, again._ But she wouldn’t let it push her away, like she had last time. _I am_ not _going to lose them again!_ Especially not from actions she could control. Things she could change.

“He rushes in without thinking,” she said firmly. “He makes decisions without logic, and doesn’t listen -”

“ _You’re_ not listening, Susan,” Lucy said quietly. “Let us explain -”

 “ _Peter_ should be the one explaining.”

“He tried. You didn’t listen,” Edmund told her. He pushed back a stray strand of the dark hair they shared; wisps had broken free of the tie at his neck, and fallen into his face.

“Fine,” she snapped. Why did they always end up sitting useless at the kitchen table for these talks, anyway? _Maybe because this way we can’t hide behind actions,_ the logical part of her rationalized. Evasions of the truth never worked when you had to stare into the eyes of someone who loved you, and lie.

“It started with me,” Edmund admitted freely. “I was running into a little bit of trouble. Just small things; having to change banks, phone numbers, that sort of thing. Nothing we haven’t had to do before.” A hand lifted, scratched the collar of his green t-shirt. “But then the police started to investigate me for identity theft.”

“What?”

Calm brown met panicked blue. Soothed, with a squeeze of the hand. “It’s alright,” Lucy murmured.

“It was,” Edmund continued. Strong fingers rubbed restlessly at the tabletop.

Smooth wood, under her palms as she gripped the edge. “What happened?”

Edmund grimaced. “I managed to hide any evidence of a – suspicious nature. Peter was able to help; he called in a favor or two and the investigation dropped.”

“I didn’t know,” Susan murmured. Loosened her grip on the edge of thick oak, and pressed palms flat.

“You were in America.” That voice was so carefully free of condemnation. Susan couldn’t help but feel a bit defensive at Lucy’s words.

“Peter decided then that he had to do something to cloak all our backgrounds more thoroughly. What we’d been doing up to this point wasn’t enough, clearly, but we were able to fob off missing records to things like accidents, and changes in technology, for a little bit. Now,” Edmund shook his head. “Information is everywhere, and the least little thing can trip you up.”

Lucy winced. “I tried to pull money out of a bank account I hadn’t been to in awhile. They almost arrested me; their records showed that I was practically forty. I got out of it by claiming to be my own daughter, with the same name.”

Susan hissed. “You need to be careful, Lucy!”

“Peter got that job to take care of all of us,” her little sister said stubbornly. “You don’t understand – you changed countries and changed lives at the same time. It was easy for you to leave it all behind, and start new.”

Lucy had never been able to hide when she was hurt. But that stung. “It wasn’t _easy_ for me to leave you,” she protested.

Edmund was the one who said the words, though they could have come from either of them. “But you did it anyway.”

Her mouth snapped shut. To deny the pain there would make her love for her family a lie. “I did,” she said quietly. “I did it so I could _do_ something.”

“For those poor children, Susan?” Lucy’s voice was unaccountably gentle. “Or for yourself?”

She froze; the barb aimed true. Panicked, her mind flew over years of research into a disease that afflicted the young, scything short lives with brutal abandon. Images of children, no more than eight, bent and wrinkled and white-haired as eighty-year-olds. “We’re different,” she choked out, past aching memories and a lump lodged in her throat. _It was for them . . . wasn’t it?_ “I thought, if I could figure out how, I could help them -”

“Or if you figured out how, you could reverse whatever Narnia had _done_ to you,” Edmund’s voice was coldly logical. “Be normal, and not a _freak_.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Easier, far easier, to focus on the reality of the previous argument than on the stunned thoughts and searing memories jumbled in her brain.

“But is it true, Susan?” Lucy, eyes bright with sorrow. Gripping her fingers in a clasp of steel; and Susan welcomed the pain.

“I – I don’t know.” She wanted to cry. _I never could lie to them. They always knew._

“Peter took that job for us.” Edmund again, softer this time. “So he could protect all of us – even you, in America. So that no one would come looking, that nothing would appear abnormal.”

“He’s _always_ tried to protect us,” Lucy murmured. “Mum asked him to look after us, that day we got on the train. He always has, ever since. He can’t _do_ anything else.”

* * *

****_(Draco)_ ** **

* * *

“Take Travers, Yaxley, and Macnair,” his father ordered.

Nott’s response was an indistinguishable murmur; Draco scowled, pressing closer to carved wood. _Get closer, dammit . . ._

That was the problem with this spell. It focused in only on the individual he most wanted to hear, slipping past the wards circling viciously around, waiting for the slightest hint of ill intent. _But he’s on the outermost fringes of the spell’s radius._ Expand it any more, and he _would_ be caught.

_Bad enough that the Merlin-cursed house elves can pop in at any time,_ he thought sourly, scanning the hallway once more. Mother had gone out, and didn’t intend to be back before evening, but Draco knew how easily plans got changed.

“You’ll break into three groups, and come at the target from three different directions. I want her stunned. She’s of no use to our Lord if her death is not appropriately timed.”

_For use in that ceremony._

Draco shivered, and clamped down hard. Any sense of vulnerability, of _doing-something-I-shouldn’t_ , and the warding spells that were ignoring the innocuous, statue-like presence of _‘boy’_ would register _‘threat’_.

_And then I’ll have much more immediate problems than whether or not Father’s trying to bring a Dark Lord back from the dead._

Or . . . not so dead, if rumors were to be believed.

“There will be _no_ mistakes, Theodore.” Lucius’ voice a dangerous, familiar purr; one that promised sweet, dark pain if crossed.

“No, Lucius.” The barest tremble of fear. From a widower with nothing left to lose but an empty life, it was closer to an Unbreakable Vow than any meaningless words of promise.

And not so far-fetched a plan, either, if his books were to be trusted. The idea that books could betray, could lead their reader along into lands of untruth and delusion, was something that most of his classmates could never comprehend. Draco’s lip lifted in a silent sneer. _Especially not Granger. Foolish Gryffindor._

Slytherins knew better than to trust in anyone but themselves.

_But the attack will be soon._ Draco frowned. _Edmund needs to know._ Even if the information was incomplete, and he had no idea who had drawn the lethally intent focus of Lucius Malfoy.

_Bone of the father, unknowingly taken._

Merlin knew where he kept it, but Draco was certain his Father had that component of the spell. He’d seen the robes, smudged with grave-soil and other awful things. Lucius Malfoy was pristine, always – and magic could accomplish many things. But some chores were. . . messy.

_Flesh of the servant, willfully given._

Not completely willfully, but Gibbon knew his fate. Draco could see it, in the ink-drawn images that made even him shudder. It was willed by Lucius Malfoy, and that was enough to counteract the soon-to-be sacrificed Death Eater’s reluctance.

_Blood of the enemy, forcefully taken._

And now, the attack. While they had most of what they needed to bring Voldemort to flesh, they didn’t have it all. Blue eyes hardened, chips of ice in a pale face. They _wouldn’t_ have it, not if he could prevent it. Nothos was dead, forever – what right had Voldemort to life again?

A prickling feeling on the back of his neck warned him.

Draco fled, feeling the spells latch on to the swell of hate he just _could not_ push back down. Feeling them seek it out, thirsty for the trail of the eavesdropper. Silent feet carried him swiftly through corridors and empty, lavishly furnished rooms. Out, to clean air wiping away the fear of a close brush with his father’s protective spells. Out, to sunlit warmth sinking greedily into his chilled spirit.

He had no time – he had to let Edmund know, and trust the other man would know how to prevent the attack. The letter must be written, and the owl could not wait. But just for a moment, Draco lingered in the light, letting it soothe away memories of shadow and darkness.

_Just for a little while._

* * *

****_(Remus)_ ** **

* * *

__   


_“Impedimenta!”_ He narrowly avoided tripping over a root in his haste to put bark and branches between himself and his opponent.

_Why am I doing this again?_ Late afternoon, and he could be reading. Instead -

_“Flagrate!”_ The sparks chased him out from behind the tree -

_“Aguamente!”_ _Right. Sirius needs practice._ Remus snorted at that. _I can’t believe I fell for it._

_“Incarcerus!”_   - and almost into Sirius’ confining spell. Ropes sailed toward him.

_“Incendio!”_  Ash fluttered to the grass.

Power blazed at him. _“Reducto!”_

Remus hit the ground, a jet of blue light punching through the air and missing by mere centimeters. _“Waddiwassi!”_  

Clods of dirt shot up from the ground, pelting the other Marauder; but Sirius didn’t let it throw him. _“Relashio!”_

_“Immobulus!”_

_‘Reflexes are shot to hell,’_ Sirius had claimed. Didn’t look like it, as he dove and rolled, not away, but _toward_ Remus.

The Marauder scrambled backward. _“Rictusempra!”_

Too late – aim off by an embarrassing margin, he missed. _“Petrificus Totalus!”_ And found himself locked in a full-body bind. _And he was pulling the punches._

Without a properly equipped dueling space, such as those provided for the Aurors in the Ministry of Magic, the best they could do was tear up the lawn and woods of the Mansion practicing. Lucy Pevensie had asked them to avoid killing any trees, if at all possible. _So Sirius tried to smack me with the downed branches instead._

_“Finite Incantatem.”_

Remus rolled off the grass, flexing fingers on his wand.

“Are you alright, Moony?”

He grinned, and glanced at streaks of green and brown ornamenting his robes. “More or less.” He saw the troubled expression lurking in blue eyes, and grasped the other’s shoulder. “Three out of three, Sirius. Well done.”

“For a Hogwarts student, maybe.” _Not an Auror._ No malice or derision there. Just cool assessment, cataloguing the entire mock-battle. _And finding himself wanting._

“Give it time.” Every day, Sirius was more and more like the man who had gone to prison, and less like the one who had escaped. He couldn’t help but be thankful for the change; especially when it meant the cases of dizziness and disorientation were slowly disappearing. _Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder._ At least, that was the Muggle name for it.

Remus set about undoing the damage they’d wrought to the lawn. But good to their words, they hadn’t harmed any of the trees. _And didn’t move beyond seventh-year magics._

“I don’t think we have a lot of that.” Another wand, strangely silver-white, joined his in repairing the torn-up sod.

_It has to be grating on him._ In any spare moment, Sirius could be found looking up complex spells in every book they had, and quite a few more borrowed from Hogwarts. It didn’t bother Remus to go back and forth to the school’s library for these trips. _Except it means that I have to leave Sirius._

“At least, not for much longer,” Sirius breathed, sliding polished wood away.

Remus blinked at him. “You mean the Death Eaters.”

Only a blind man would miss the determination etched in every line of his friend’s body. Remus had been many things, but never that. The stubbornness worn away by years of cold stone, loneliness, and living nightmares, had been the first thing to return. “Harry was protected at the Dursleys’. By ancient magic that Voldemort wouldn’t dare cross. But now -”

“He has you, Sirius,” Remus said gently, touching a shoulder. _Maybe that’s part of the problem._ And he knew he was right when his friend flinched from his hand. “Padfoot?”

Blue eyes were blank, distant – and Remus ground his teeth against the curses that wanted to spring free.

_‘Flashbacks,’ Edmund told him. ‘It’s a mix of Combat Stress Syndrome and PTSD – he’s been alone, fighting, for a very long time. He may know he’s safe, logically, but feeling safe is something else entirely. And after twelve years – it’s going to take a long time for it to sink in.’_

Patience was something Remus had always had more of than his friends. But right now. . .

Sirius shook his head, pushing free of the grasping memory. Sweat slicked the black hair, fine tremors wracked a body just a shade too thin for true health. “Sorry. I just -”

Remus shook his head, reaching out again as they crossed the lawn. It comforted them both that Sirius was able to accept the hand on his arm without flinching. “Don’t worry about it, Padfoot.”

Inside the Mansion, they came across Edmund playing wizard chess with Harry. Lucy was speaking with Susan at the other end of the room. Oblivious to their presence, Harry snorted at something Edmund said, green eyes dancing with merriment. It was something pleasant to see, given that they both remembered a toddling fifteen-month-old, and had come face-to-face with a teenager instead.

The body at his side caught a breath on seeing that grin turn their way, and brighten even more.

“He looks like James,” Remus murmured. His throat tightened, and when he saw the gaping heart-wound in Sirius’ eyes, he wanted to hex himself.

_‘You were able to bury Lily and James twelve years ago.’ Edmund’s voice was careful, soft, but the words didn’t hurt as he had feared they might._

_‘Yes,” Remus answered._

_‘But for Sirius – he’s had the moment when he discovered their deaths dredged up, every day, for the past twelve years. He’s never been able to put them to rest. For him, it’s as if they died yesterday. As if every awful thing that ever happened to him – running away from home, being disowned, Peter’s betrayal, Lily and James’ deaths, his interrogation by friends, being incarcerated without trial – it’s always as fresh as if it’s happening at this very moment. That’s where the flashbacks come from._

_‘Healing like this takes time. Be ready for it to take a very long time.’_

“Yeah,” Sirius found a genuine smile somewhere. “He really does. Lily too.”

Remus grinned. It was going to take time – he knew that. But Sirius was the most determined, stubborn person he had ever met. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t be as long as Edmund thought before his friend beat this, and laid to rest the ghosts haunting him.

“Sirius! Remus!”

“Hey, kid,” Sirius ruffled black hair as Harry hugged him. “Whatcha up to?”

“Edmund’s beating me at chess,” Harry grinned, not looking at all dismayed by the idea. “How’d it go?”

Sirius scowled; Remus smiled.

“Yeah, well.” The godfather waved the question off, turning his attention to the Pevensies. “Peter’s gone again?”

Peter and Edmund had been spending their free time talking to Sirius, trying to help. His friend was stubbornly silent most of the time, but Remus thought it helped nonetheless.

Harry nodded. “He thought he could stay the week, but he got a call. They needed him back in London this morning, so he went early.”

They’d been out in the yard all day; since midmorning at the least. That they’d missed the oldest Pevensie’s absence didn’t surprise Remus. That they’d missed lunch did. Sirius needed to put back weight; he couldn’t go around skipping meals.

_But it’s just about time for_ – a rumbling stomach upstaged his question. Pink tinged Sirius’ cheeks; Remus and Harry traded smiles. “Dinner?”

* * *

****_5 August 1994_ ** **

* * *

****_(Robert Channesy)_ ** **

* * *

“Sorry. Can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.” The Auror’s face was masklike and stubborn; Rob almost growled in frustration.

“Come on, Gawain, it’s me! You _know_ I only want to know what’s going on!” And with the Dark Mark hovering low overhead – more people than just Rob were going to be curious. _And scared._

But Gawain Robards, head of the Aurors and longtime friend of his – since Hogwarts, in fact – only shook his head. “Sorry, Rob. I know you only print what’s the truth, but I can’t say as much for some of your other colleagues.”

“My -” Rob caught the flick of green eyes, and followed them – to see a blonde witch in magenta robes, with a peacock-feather quill, questioning a stony-faced Auror. _What the bloody blazes is Skeeter doing here?_ Rob could tell from here that the man on guard had no intention of opening his mouth. “Oh, no.”

“Better look out. She’s headed this way.”

Rob caught the gleam in green eyes and scowled. Robard grinned at him. “I only have to deal with her. You have to work with her.”

“You’re entirely too amused by this,” Rob growled.

“Meet you in the pub,” Gawain offered. _Leaky Cauldron, ten-o’clock._ The private interview was his friend’s way of making it up to him. And both of them wanted the real story to get out there before Skeeter could distort it with lies and insinuations. _I don’t know why Nick even prints that trash . . ._  On second thought, maybe he did. Better the enemy you knew than the enemy you didn’t, after all.

Rob sighed. “Thanks.”

“Ah, Mr. Robard,” came the sly feminine voice. The woman known collectively as, _‘Oh Merlin, it’s her – run!’_   smiled brightly at the two of them. “And Robert.”

“Rita,” he stuck a smile on his face, feeling like his teeth might crack. _I really don’t like this woman._ “I’m surprised to see you here.”

The scribbling peacock quill paused a moment. Glasses turned his way. “Oh, I was just passing by, and saw the commotion.”

_Right. At . . ._ he checked his watch. _Six-twenty in the morning. And did I mention that I’m running for Minister of Magic next month?_ Rob knew where Rita lived and usually preyed, in the same manner that those who lived in Transylvania knew where the vampires slept and just how much ground they could cover in a dead run. _And this is definitely out of her usual range. She must have seen the opportunity to try to wriggle out of gossip and into the headliners._

“Well, I think we’re just about finished up here,” Rob nodded to Gawain. The Auror grunted uncommunicatively, and motioned for them to be escorted from the cordoned-off scene.

Though the gossip beat had been the only real place that Nick could put her; after all, on the _Daily Prophet_ staff, she could do little to damage the paper. Nick kept a tight leash on some of her wilder lies; Rob was given a freedom she didn’t have, and the senior editor knew he wouldn’t take advantage of. Sometimes – _fine, every time I see her –_ Rob wished that Rita was working somewhere else, but he didn’t even want to think about the kind of damage she could do, given a free reign in something like Lovegood’s _Quibbler._

“Did he tell you anything, Robert?” Skeeter pounced the moment they were – barely – out of earshot.

“No,” Rob replied evenly. _She calls me that to irritate me, I know it._ “It’s Ministry policy not to talk about ongoing investigations to anyone. Especially the media.”

 He could almost see the numbers churning in her head as she began calculating. “Most likely because they _have_ no evidence to speak of,” she sniffed. “The state of the Auror division is getting shoddier by the day . . . ”

Rob forced his brows down, and tried to keep the surprise off his face. The Aurors did take a lot of heat from the general public, it was true; sometimes, it was even justified. But mistakes happened only rarely. And attacking the people who kept the Magical world safe didn’t sit right with Rob, above and beyond the fact that Gawain was a good friend. And a good man. _One of the best._

Skeeter, however, was always aiming for sensationalism. Rob smothered his disgust, knowing he was stuck with her until he could lose her at the _Daily Prophet_ office in London.

Which he managed quite quickly, even maneuvering enough to give Nick a quick warning about Skeeter, and the fact that no one had actually talked to the magenta-robed witch.

He slid out from notice, and slipped away to the Leaky Cauldron without anyone being the wiser; and without being followed. _By people or animals._ Rob took a seat and gave Tom his order. Moments later, a bottle of butterbeer in hand, he scanned the inside of the pub carefully.

He’d had suspicions for some time about how Rita Skeeter got her inside scoop on stories that nearly had the _Daily Prophet_ neck-deep in libel lawsuits. He was an investigative reporter because he could connect threads, and follow evidence. And there was a common one in every story he heard about how the victims of Skeeter’s malicious gossip had been alone, and no one could hear them –

“Rob.”

He turned on the stool, butterbeer in one hand.

Gawain sat heavily next to him, and Tom offered him a glass. The Auror shook his head. “On duty.” The barkeep nodded, and plodded away from them.

A quick scan with his wand pronounced them both clear, and Rob sighed in relief, setting the bounds of his next spell. _“Protelencio.”_

“Haven’t seen that before,” the Auror commented. A combination shield/silencing charm – no, it was something he had invented as soon as the hints about Skeeter had congealed into a solid threat. And now the two of them were alone in an invisible bubble, into which no one could enter or hear.

“Skeeter,” he explained with a scowl, still wary.

Gawain snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past that woman to be able to read lips.”

“Nor would I.” He turned toward the bar, settling his elbows on the surface. He’d chosen this spot precisely because there were no mirrors or reflective surfaces nearby, and he’d known Gawain would want his back to a wall.

The reporter waited while his friend quietly surveyed the area. He was good, but Gawain’s training was better. “You really should have gone to the Aurors,” was the final pronouncement.

“Not this again,” Rob grouched good-naturedly. He shifted on the stool, uncomfortable as ever when this subject came up. Gawain had been trying to recruit him since seventh year – and it had been much harder to put him off when they had shared a dorm together. _So change the subject._ “What was going on this morning?”

Five a.m., and all _hadn’t_ been well.

Gawain’s whole body relaxed; Rob tensed. Aurors didn’t get twitchy when they were angry. They got focused.

“There was a Death Eater attack,” Gawain said grimly.

A chill slammed down on him that butterbeer couldn’t chase away. “The victim?”

Gawain’s face was even colder, if possible. “Minerva McGonagall.”

Rob took furious mental notes. Speech was a little beyond him.

“She’s fine. In St. Mungo’s now, and the preliminary healer’s report says that she should make a full recovery.” His friend shot him a tight grin. “She escaped using her Animagus form, despite the Dobermans the bastards brought to hunt her down. That is one tough lady.”

“You’re _sure_ it’s Death Eaters.” Of course he was sure. Gawain would never say anything otherwise.

“Dark Mark,” the Auror held up a finger. “Death Eater robes, identified by the witness.” Another finger. “Witness report claims minor mention of a Dark Lord.” Three solid, unshakeable points of evidence.

Rob shivered.

A fourth finger. “And we’ve got a body.”

He nearly broke his pen, he clenched it so tightly. “A _body_?” Thank Merlin for the silencing charm, because the volume of that would have garnered the attention of the entire bar. “ _Who?_ ”

Gawain grimaced, glancing around the Leaky Cauldron. “Theodore Nott, Sr. Funny thing is, McGonagall swears she didn’t do more than stun her attackers. That was all they seemed interested in doing to her.” The Auror settled back in his chair to watch Rob.

The reporter’s mind raced, trying to form connections between past events and the information he had just been given. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I agree.”

“Why her? Of all the people for Death Eaters to attack -”

“I’d put Harry Potter at the top of that list, myself,” Gawain agreed quietly.

Rob shook his head. “Dumbledore set up the protections on him; when he’s not at Hogwarts, getting to that boy would be like breaking into Gringotts -”

“Which, as of two years ago, is easier than it might seem,” the Auror reminded him.

“ – and the entire Wizarding World knows it,” Rob finished. “Even going after Fudge would be easier.”

“Less security,” Gawain muttered thoughtfully. “And perhaps an emotional blow. Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, but also – anyone who’s gone to Hogwarts in the last twenty years has had her for Transfiguration. Not many people in the Wizarding World who don’t at least know of her.”

Rob conceded the point. “That could be it.” Though it felt like something was missing. But the thing that was really bothering him - “Why now?” Rob muttered. The mouthful of butterbeer actually did something to warm the chill that settled into his very bones, just from thinking about this.

“I don’t follow.”

Rob shook his head, looking over the Muggle-style pad and pen he used to take these notes. A little unorthodox from the magical standpoint, but much easier to keep on hand than parchment and quill. “Twelve years of relative peace. Voldemort was defeated -”

Gawain jerked at the name, and pressed his lips tightly together. “You know, I can’t decide if you’re foolhardy or just foolish.”

Rob eyed him. “ – by Harry Potter. The world went back to normal. But in the last year – Sirius Black broke out of prison.” He tapped the pen against paper, thoughts far away. “Peter Pettigrew was found alive, and guilty of being a Death Eater and a murderer. Death Eater attacks grew more prevalent – as did the whispers in the underground about the Dark Lord. Now this.”

Chestnut-colored, close-cropped curls tilted as Gawain cocked his head. A small smile settled on his friend’s face. “I am always surprised by how much you know about what’s really going on.”

“I don’t like it,” Rob said bluntly. He nursed the bottle of butterbeer, knowing that if Tom thought he was after a refill, the wizard barkeep would come right on over and run smack into his silencing charm. Literally. “Even during the height of the periodic crazes in the darker elements of society, they didn’t go so far as to actually attack anyone.”

They were both familiar with that; there had been at least three times in the past decade that someone had claimed to be Voldemort returned, and tried to muster the power of the Death Eaters who were still free. _And there are a terrifying amount of those. ‘Imperius Curse’ indeed._ The Aurors had crushed every attempt, with extreme prejudice.

Gawain’s eyes narrowed. They each got more out of these mutual exchanges than just the assurance of circumventing Skeeter’s lies. Rob sometimes got the feeling that Gawain _liked_ dropping these puzzles and bits of information on him, just to see what he thought or how he reacted. “You think there’s something more going on.”

The reporter hesitated, pen tracing idly over the few notes he’d scratched onto paper.

“Rob.”

“There were a few strange rumors coming out of Hogwarts in June of 1992,” he said quietly. “Mostly from students; staff refused to talk about it. About the Philosopher’s Stone, being hidden in the school. And that Voldemort went after it.” He suppressed a shiver. _The Elixer of Life, in the hands of the greatest evil since Grindelwald . . ._

Gawain stared at him. “I never heard anything.”

Rob shrugged, ink darkening as the nib traced an _a_ over and over. “According to what I could find out, he was apparently thwarted by Harry Potter and two of his friends – the youngest Weasley boy, and a Muggle born named Hermione Granger.”

“Just rumors?” Gawain asked, green eyes sharp.

“Supposedly.” And to the part that made him even more uneasy. “Rumors that someone very high-up went to a lot of trouble to make disappear.” _And being that it was Hogwarts –_

“Dumbledore.”

“I didn’t have enough evidence for a story,” Rob said quietly. “Just rumors.” Rumors that corroborated into an incredible tale – one that had everything but an official stamp proclaiming its truth.

“But it was Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger who caught Peter Pettigrew,” Gawain muttered.

Rob’s head shot up. “They said that it was Remus Lupin -”

“Oh, he was no doubt involved,” the Auror nodded. “But three minors were as well; the names were kept quiet and out of the trial altogether, but I took the initial report.”

They sat in the shared silence of uneasy knowledge. Neither liked knowing that there was something going on that would affect their entire world, and they had only an inkling of what was happening. _Dumbledore pulls the strings, and people dance,_ Rob thought unhappily. _We trust him, because he has always had the welfare of our world in mind. We trust him because the other options are unthinkable._

“Speaking of rumors,” Rob made an effort to lighten the gloom that had descended. “Any truth to the claims that Sirius Black is returning to the Aurors?”

That, Gawain wouldn’t talk about. “We’ll see,” he said. No eye contact, body language noncommittal in every way. But before Rob dropped the charm, he flashed the other a grin, and winked.

* * *

****_6 August 1994_ ** **

* * *

****_(Peter)_ ** **

* * *

A dull pain was hammering at his temples, he hadn’t slept in two days, and his eyes kept slipping closed on him – but he was finally done. _First that mess with Susan, now this._ It made sense, though, that they would call him in to format a profile on a new murderer popping up in the London area.

But there was only one body, and that wasn’t enough to do much of anything with, no matter how meticulous the police and forensic teams were. _And no signs of how the man was murdered._

No injuries significant enough to kill, or marks of weapons; stabbing, gunshot, the like. No sign of strangulation; and until toxicology was finished, the only assumption they could make was poison. _Unless he had a heart attack in the middle of being beaten. Which isn’t too unlikely, given his apparent age._ Not that there hadn’t been any marks on the man. Far from it.

Peter picked up the picture, tired enough to not have to distance himself from the horror. He might have seen battlefields in Narnia, but that was one blurred mass of terror and shock – almost too much to take in. Not the same as a murder, with horror muted just enough for the senses to comprehend without overflowing. Peter pushed to his feet, gathering the folder he’d compiled as he studied the dead man one last time.

_Broken fingers, right arm as well. Bruises, cuts, marks of being beaten. Fists and hands – someone who takes pleasure in hurting. Or a gang._ The latter was entirely possible, despite Lopatin’s insistence that he treat this as if there was one killer. _Even if there was one man behind it all, that doesn’t mean he didn’t have help._

He scanned his identification keycard to pass through the door at the end of the hall. It was so improbable that his suspicions of his supervisor jacked higher. But to put him on busywork just to keep an eye on him . . . _It’s not paranoia if they are out to get you._ And he had to resist the almost compulsive urge to check that his siblings’ files were still buried in anonymity. _If they are watching, it means they don’t know enough to make a move. And I_ won’t _lead them to Su, Ed, and Lucy._ After all, if he was in his supervisor’s place, that would be what he would count on.

But this was the last straw. As soon as it wouldn’t rouse suspicions, he was leaving. _It might take two years if they don’t fire me first, but that’s the limit. After that, I’m gone._

“You look godawful, Pevensie,” was Bert’s frank assessment as he walked into her office several moments later. The room was light and airy, spacious and comfortably furnished; as different from his cubicle as day from night. “Is that it? Good.”  She flipped through the files as he stood, dazed by the speed of it, before her desk.

A few noises of approval met his ears, and Peter slipped his hands into his pockets. Steely eyes glanced up and found him still standing there. “Go home,” she ordered him abruptly. “I don’t want to see your face again until Thursday. Take three days. Go.”

He left the office, somewhat bemused. He couldn’t deny he needed to rest, and that he’d originally been planning to be back from his break tomorrow. But he couldn’t see what he’d been pulled in for at all. _‘Mine is not to question why.’ Yeah, right._ Now, he was doing nothing but.

At the door, his coat on and ready to go home, he hesitated. _Looks like it might rain._ The temptation to just go to his London flat and avoid the troubles of going and being home was overwhelming. Exhaustion tugged at him. _But no problem is ever solved by ignoring it._ And the problem with Su couldn’t wait any longer than it had been already made to.

Exhaling a silent sigh, Peter headed for the train station.

* * *

****_(Aileen)_ ** **

* * *

        

_“What’s at Coombe Halt?”_

_Aileen shrugged. “Not much, really.”_

_Bert leant back in her chair, a pencil eraser scratching thoughtfully behind her ear. Today, grey and white-streaked hair was pulled into a bun. Wisps floated free and wavy about the supervisor’s face. “And three people met him there . . .”_

_“Yes. Two women, and a man,” she repeated. Monday morning, and no coffee. Something that she had, admittedly, picked up from the foreign stores scattered about London, for the comfort of tourists._

_Bert scribbled a note on a piece of paper. Aileen eyeballed the writing, upside-down and illegible. “What do you mean, ‘not much’?”_

_She swept her hair from her face; the short bob kept it tamed, but cooperation seemed beyond the blonde strands today. “I really don’t know. There’s a small town about three miles from the stop, to the west. My grandmother Macready used to work at a large, private home held by a local wealthy academic out of Coombe Halt, but that was fifty years ago.”_

_“So you have connections,” Bert’s eyes twinkled._

_Aileen’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing beyond her name. And even that won’t hold with anyone but the old-timers, if there are any left.”_

_Alberta Lopatin, supervisor of spies and crafty to the core, waved that minor technicality away._

_“Bert?” She wasn’t alarmed. Much. “Does this mean you’re rethinking that insane plan you put together last week?”_

At least her mad plot to kidnap Pevensie and start applying pressure until the man spilled and told them everything had been postponed. One of her people or not, Alberta had more than enough reason at this point to know that he was keeping information from her.  And that was all it took for vicious practicality to move in and set up house where her morals used to be.

_Which is why I’m here,_ Aileen thought grumpily, eyeing wet clouds and pulling her hood lower. _Gathering more information._ And about to get soaked, given that she had elected not to use magic anywhere near Pevensie for the time being. It was only a few words, but written in green ink or spoken by an unobtrusive profiler, she knew something was up. _Bert will kill me if I blow this._

Especially if something went wrong. Government employee or not, the man had rights. And with the denial of the magical world by the Muggle government, if he chose to bring suit against them . . . _Things could get sticky._

The inordinate emptiness of the man’s file hadn’t been relevant before; but they couldn’t predict what he would do if cornered. Fight back, run . . . and Bert had unassociated profilers working on it this very moment. Though it had been hard to find anyone in the department who didn’t know Pevensie, after his three years of working there.

Aileen continued along the trail left by the car. Over a week since the man had reappeared for a job, and then disappeared again. She’d followed, managing to slip off the train at the same station without being noticed. But this wasn’t the way to the village, and dark suspicions were rumbling through her mind as she peered at the track.

_Where are you going?_

* * *

****_(Lucius Malfoy)_  ** **

* * *

The thick robes protected him from the deep night’s chill. This far into the ForbiddenForest, no wind stirred the leaves. Lucius ran his eyes once more over the ingredients laid out on a flat rock. Considered the low-burning fire and the cauldron securely hung just above the flames.

_This is one potion whose ingredients must be fresh._

Which was why Gibbon was still alive, though not for long. Stupefied and securely bound, the bulky man needed no watch. _And I need all my strength for the attack._

He turned to Macnair, now leader of the planned assault after Nott’s predictable failure to ensnare McGonagall. _Well, if I’d intended it to succeed, I wouldn’t have put_ him _in charge._ Nott had been a threat, though a very minor one. One that might have turned on him, to back Severus Snape.

_No longer a threat._ Lucius beckoned the stumpy Death Eater closer.

_Better that Snape be kept ignorant entirely._ Oh, he trusted the man as a double-agent; he knew where Snape’s ultimate loyalties lay. And there was no way he would forfeit his chance to ascend to his Lord’s right hand, by allowing Snape to participate in this ceremony. _Doubtless it would go smoother with him here._ Snape was intelligent and powerful, as well as heartless. There had been moments when Lucius had wished for his aid, as it would mean far less work for him. But he hadn’t gotten to where he was by shying away from difficult tasks.

“You are prepared.”

Macnair nodded. He wasn’t like Nott; this man wasn’t afraid of Lucius’ social standing. Only power, and the ability to inflict pain, counted. “I won’t fail.”

“You had better not.”

Nott’s death had served as an example to the others who had been demoralized by the failure to capture McGonagall. Macnair, however, hadn’t been cowed. Lucius could appreciate that, as much as he recognized that Macnair was dangerous enough for him to exert the effort to crush the executioner. _But until then, I control him. And he is far more useful alive than dead, for the moment._

Lucius pulled a map from his sleeve; one of the few that showed the ForbiddenForest in any kind of detail. _And it shows the Muggle building so hidden from magical sight._

It was a strange building, and no doubt protected; though not by wards. Which was in part why Lucius was remaining in the clearing, preparing the potion, while the lesser Death Eaters were sent to fetch the sacrifice. _I’m certainly not suicidal enough to put myself in the way of that._

From all his sources said, the target would be there, along with several Muggles, and another wizard, Remus Lupin.

“You will go here.” The tip of his wand illuminated the Mansion. “I do not care what you do with the Muggles, or the werewolf. But you will bring me Sirius Black. Alive.”       

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

****_(Edmund)_ ** **

* * *

_This is ridiculous._ “Peter?” The blond head turned, and blue eyes blinked tiredly at the younger man. _At least I’ve found him._

“What is it, Ed?”

Dark eyes begged the ceiling for patience. “It’s about three in the morning, Peter. What are you doing up?” _Exhausted as he was, I’m surprised he –_

A slight flinch, there and gone, across a face he knew as well as his own. And Edmund realized why his brother was still awake, leaning against the wardrobe in the spare room.

“Couldn’t sleep,” was the response. And it was true enough, without breathing a word of why. _Nightmares._ Not that Edmund needed to be told, after so many years.

He leant next to the other man against solid, comforting wood, and let his fingers trace the carvings decorating the wardrobe’s dark paneling. A careful glance showed him that Peter hadn’t even bothered changing into his nightclothes; had probably stayed in the kitchen long enough for everyone else to go to bed before trekking up to the spare room.

Edmund, waiting for the telltale sounds of another person making ready for bed, had stayed up. _It’s a good thing we have company, and are sharing rooms again, or he’d be wandering about all night._ “I got another letter from Draco today,” he broke the silence.

“So soon?”

“Unexpected, I know,” he sighed. His eyes had finally adjusted to the night, and he spread his fingers in the light of a feeble moon. “He sounded panicked. A group of Death Eaters assembled at Malfoy Manor, making noises about a raid tonight. I forwarded it to Dumbledore, but I don’t know if he’ll get it in time -”

Peter sat up straight, jostling his brother from weighty thoughts. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear -”

The noise came again, more loudly. Splintering wood; a door, slamming off brass hinges.

Blue and brown met, held. And the two men rushed for the door.

* * *

****_(Sirius)_ ** **

* * *

  


He slammed free of the covers before he even heard the first noise, brain barely awake but broken wards and half-dead training screaming at him. Paused barely long enough to yank on yesterday’s clothes. Eleven inches of cool wood under his fingers, he raced from the room, not even trying for silence.

_Harry._

A woman poked her head from the room as he passed, but he needed to get to his godson. He peered down the steps, taking in the dark robes spilling into the Mansion. A lithe shadow moved to his shoulder – Remus. The wards breaking must have woken him, as it had yanked Sirius from sleep.

_Death Eaters!_

He locked gazes with warm blue; he trusted Remus with his life, with Harry’s. But there were more people than him here tonight; more lives at stake. _I might not be an Auror anymore, but this is what I do._

“Remus, get Harry. Get him safe.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

_Marauders – do or die. Together._

“You _have_ to. I’ll be right there; I just need to hold them off for a little. Peter and Edmund will help.”

Blue eyes bored into him.

“Remus. Get Harry.”

A fleeting touch to his shoulder, and he could breathe easier. Sirius stared down at the masked bodies throwing doors wide and blasting spells. And not a one of them looking up. He had a little cover, behind the banister. It would be enough.

The spell was on the tip of his wand; he needed _time._ He needed chaos.

_“Decimate!”_

* * *

****_(Lucy)_ ** **

* * *

 

“Susan!”

“Lucy? What is it?”

_I don’t know. But that noise –_ “Something’s not right. Come on.” Barely pausing to throw on a robe, she stuck her head out the door – Sirius ran by, Remus not far behind.

And the noises of destruction grew louder. “Susan! Someone’s in the Mansion!” _A lot of someones, from the sound of it._ Panic fluttered in her stomach; she wished desperately for the dagger Father Christmas had given her, so many years ago.  

Screaming, shouts filtered to them – the wizards were fighting.

“What do we do?” Susan calmly knotted her robe closed, and Lucy didn’t know what to –

Peter and Edmund rushed toward them, from the opposite end of the hall. _Not from their room –_ steel gleamed . Remus was suddenly coming from the other direction, wand out and fierce fury on his face.

An explosion rocked the hall.

“Harry,” Remus said quickly. “Sirius is holding them off -”

Peter nodded, taking control. “Remus, Lu, Su, go to Harry, keep him safe.” His eyes lit on Remus. “Get him out of here, if you have to. We’ll be fine.”

Cold, comforting steel pressed into her palm. The oldest Pevensie nodded at her, and Lucy almost sagged in relief.

“Come _on_ , Lucy!” Susan dragged her after Remus, heading toward the boy’s room. She glanced behind, to see Edmund’s back disappear around the corner.

A blast of light and heat pushed them; her fingers clenched on the hilt of the small blade.

_Oh, Aslan please, keep them safe!_

* * *

****_(Macnair)_ ** **

* * *

      

_There!_

The bastard blood-traitor; the enemy. Skulking down behind flimsy wood as he attacked them from above. _Not for long._

“Get under cover!” he snarled. Slapped a spell toward the stairs. _“Diffindo!”_

_“Protego!”_ A shimmering shield deflected his severing curse, and Walden sneered. Slunk along the wall, letting the others hurl hexes and curses and letting the chaos cover his advance.

Close, close enough to –

Two men, screaming fiercely, bounded down the steps. Metal reflected the bright colors of the spells flying through the air. Not wands in their hands – but weapons just as lethal. Yaxley went down with a gargling shout, and didn’t move. A sculpture was blasted into shrapnel, spraying them.

_Muggles._ Macnair snorted. _Idiots._ _“Crucio!”_

But the torture curse rebounded – and he barely dodged as the energy smashed a hole in the wood where his head had been. _So you’re protected from spells, then?_

But the dark-haired one was bleeding. Cut by sharp marble, flying to pieces from where a stone face had been. _So you can be hurt. I’ll see you writhing at my feet, useless worm . . ._

* * *

****_(Peter)_ ** **

* * *

         

A shout from the stairs – _“Reducto!”_

A robed figure screeched in pain, and went down.

Controlled chaos descended, swamping his senses. Demanded a moment to get sorted out – _Too long!_ his mind screamed. Too long out of battle, that this noise and heat and blood-scent would need a minute of thought just to extract reason.

But never mind that, never mind –

_“Incendio!”_

Sirius was crouching behind the banisters, raining spells down on the men below. But even now they had taken cover, some slinking off and away to back rooms. They would find other sets of stairs leading them up.

_“Crucio!”_  

Sirius dove for the floor. Splinters flew. _“Aboleo!”_  Three men were blown backwards, screaming.

Peter nodded to the wizard. “Cover us.”

And a moment later, he and Edmund were on the ground level, and two of the intruders were bleeding on the floor. _Wounded or dead._ Not that it mattered – they were out of the fight.

_“Impedimenta!”_

Marble hurtled through the air as a bust exploded – Edmund cried out in pain, but he was still standing, not hurt, a trickle of blood on his cheek and a warm hand on Peter’s back, just for a moment, letting him know his brother was still with him.

_I know those robes._ Warned of them by Dumbledore. Read about them, in a much more informative book. _Death Eaters. Harry!_

But he trusted Remus, dodging another curse to slam the man over the head with the hilt of his weapon. But there were only four here, four accounted for – _Where are they?_

Open doors, leading out of the main entranceway and burrowing into the house. Blue eyes blinked, regaining sanity as the world around Peter calmed. _They’ve gone deeper into the house –_

He turned, opening his mouth to shout warning to Sirius - and words he dreaded to hear spat through smoke-clogged air at his little brother.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

“Edmund! _Get down!_ ” He lunged into the other form, missing bare blade by inches, to knock them both in a pile of limbs and metal to the floor. He felt two impacts – barely, dimly – as something smashed unprotected ribs and pain scattered his thoughts.

The world went black.

* * *

****_(Remus)_ ** **

* * *

He kept his eyes and wand trained on the door, Harry likewise.

_“To hell with underage wizardry,” he snapped, throwing the door open to find James’ son, shaking and waiting._

Lucy had a hefty candlestick in one hand, and the slim knife Peter had slipped her in the other. Susan was unarmed, but unafraid – and a glint in blue eyes turned steely reassured him.

Green eyes, worried, fixed on him. “It’s getting quiet.”

_Too quiet._

The wolf snarled; Remus didn’t try to hold it back. _Pack_ was out there, fighting, bleeding – and the urge would no longer be denied. Oh, this was pack as well, _weak-pack_ , of females and pup. They could fight, but shouldn’t have to – they were more at risk.

The wolf would wait no longer. “We’re going out there.” And he met no with no protests as he eased the door open. The hallway was empty; the quickly whispered scanning spell turned up nothing but the feel of approaching danger. _Better to meet it face to face than let it find you, vulnerable and cowering._

Wand up, he hurried them through the hall, Lucy calmly holding the rearguard. He eased around a corner, and waited a moment. The noise from the battle was dying away; smoke reached the sensitive nose of the wolf.

_Blood on the air._

He _would not_ lose Sirius again. The wolf couldn’t bear to be alone; and Remus trembled to think he might be cursed enough to be the last of the Marauders. But of all the scents he sorted, rushing through the hall, _pack-hurt_ was not one of them.

_Thank Merlin._

“This way,” Lucy whispered, tugging him toward a corridor he hadn’t noticed.

“Where does it lead? Harry – light your wand.”

_“Lumos.”_

“Down past the kitchen,” Susan answered him. She peered down the steps, took Harry’s free hand, and pushed Remus ahead. “It’s safe.”      

He didn’t question the surety there; Lucy gave him his answer. “They attacked only from the front. This is the rear of the house – they can’t have reached it yet. With luck we can circle around -”

“Sh-shh!” The wolf could hear them, creeping in the darkness. Harry doused the light plunging them into blackness. And for the wolf, the night came alive. He pressed to the wall. Judged, using sound and scent, and aimed his wand around the corner. _“Stupefy!”_

The thud of a falling body told success. The wolf pricked its ears; the man listened intently. No other heartbeats, save those he guarded. “Let’s go.”

_“Incarcerus,”_ he whispered as they passed the unconscious form. _Handy spell. Thank you, Sirius._

Reminded, the wolf raged inside, and Remus bared his teeth. They met with no other opposition, and burst out into the foyer. Sirius was up, eyes flicking coolly about the room from his place on the stairs. The wolf eased within him.

The large room was a shambles; blood and soot smeared the marble floor, pockmarked by missed spells. A few small fires smoldered, and the walls were torn up badly, pale wood showing splinters where old finish had been blasted away.

Susan gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Lucy took it all in coolly, eyes never straying from Harry –

“Peter!”

Remus raced to the corner where a bloodied Edmund had rolled out from underneath his older brother. The blond man didn’t move, his face pale.

“What hit him?”

Edmund whispered, voice strained. “The Killing Curse was coming at me – he jumped, in front of it -”

Susan choked. “Oh, Aslan. No, Aslan, please. No.” She sank to the torn-up floor, one hand clutching limp fingers.

Lucy was at Peter’s other side. “He’s breathing,” she said, with no little relief. His breath was coming shallowly, and blue eyes were closed. She gripped Edmund’s hand, dredging up a reassuring smile. Lifting her brother’s head, blood came away on her skin. Blond hair was matted with the stuff – Remus could scent it, and he backed uneasily away. “You know magic doesn’t affect us. He’s hit his head -”

They still weren’t gone – he could hear the heartbeats, coming closer – _Danger,_ the wolf scented. _Close!_

Sirius whirled, some instinct flaring to life.

_“Perspicax!”_

Remus leaped forward as his friend cried out in pain. “No!” the wolf howled through him.

Black robes swirled around the figure bent double on the landing, and with a _crack_ , Sirius was gone.

* * *

****_(Lucius Malfoy)_ ** **

* * *

“You slimy son of a -”

_“Quietus.”_   He lowered thirteen inches of elm in satisfaction. Lucius stared at Black, bound and struggling between Macnair and Avery. “That will do, cousin.”

Black spat in his face.

Lucius jerked back, startled. Felt fury begin to well up, and let it loose. When he finished, he recovered a handkerchief from a pocket, and wiped the blood fastidiously from his hands. A matching trickle trailed down Black’s chin from the split lip. _Wouldn’t do to kill him before the appropriate moment,_ he cautioned himself. And that time was fast approaching.

Rarely did he let his temper get the best of him. Sometimes his son could drive him to fits of irrationality, but the only people who had ever angered him this easily were Black and Potter. He’d been four years ahead of them in Hogwarts, luckily, but still.

“Put him over here.” Across the clearing from the unconscious Gibbon. Lucius glanced at Macnair. “You’re earlier than I expected.”

The executioner grinned toothily at him. “We worked fast.” He and Avery dropped Black; the man managed to catch himself. Lucius frowned. He wasn’t quite unconscious then. _Do I want him to be?_ It would be a pity his traitor of a cousin didn’t deserve – and they were related, by his marriage to Sirius’ blood cousin Narcissa.

_No,_ he thought viciously. _I want to look in his eyes when he realizes what his death will bring._

Lucius looked around the clearing with a raised brow. “You left here with a force of twelve. Tell me, why did only six return?”

“Put up a fight,” Macnair grunted. Avery was not fool enough to think that he had been spoken to. The man bowed, and retreated.

“Who did?” Lucius asked icily. “The werewolf?”

“Crazy Muggles, with swords,” Macnair snapped back. “Killed Jugson, Yaxley and Wilkes right off -”

“Muggles?” He kept his voice deadly soft. Shouting was a sign of loss of control; and that, he would never do.

Macnair shifted uneasily. The only sound that met his ears was the crackling of the fire and the increasingly panicky breaths of the stocky man in front of him. _Good._ Sweat dribbled down Macnair’s face; Lucius let a cruel smile curl his lips.

And then the fool tried again. “Yea, Muggles, but -”

_“Crucio!”_

Screams ripped through the silence, and Lucius laughed. “Offer your petty excuses to our Lord,” he snarled. “See how long he’ll let you live.” His wand fixed on the blubbering, screeching lump of flesh rocking in the dirt, he twisted, eyes searching. The remaining Death Eaters, huddled across the clearing, flinched away.

But the crouched figure of the ritual’s last sacrifice straightened, black head lifting. Blue eyes glared at him, defiant and unafraid.

Macnair screamed loudly, as fury spurted up within Lucius and was channeled into strengthening the torture curse. _Oh, yes, I made the right choice._ Black was the enemy who would strengthen his Lord; almost as much as that messy-haired brat, spawn of those Mudblood-loving Potters. _Uncowed, eh? We’ll see how long that lasts._

He removed the spell, leaving Macnair in a gasping heap on the forest floor. Lucius turned to the remaining Death Eaters, and liked the fear he saw. _Unquestioning obedience. They’ve had too long to forget their sworn obeisance._ He looked forward to re-teaching them.

Icy blue eyes flicked upward, searching through obscuring branches. And Lucius smiled. “It’s almost time.”

* * *

****_(Harry)_ ** **

* * *

“Where are they?”

The man with the cold eyes was silent, despite the blade held level with his neck. Edmund’s voice was colder than he’d ever heard it; Harry could see that the man was running out of patience. They’d been questioning the Death Eater that Remus had caught for fifteen minutes.

_They could be anywhere!_ And he wouldn’t let himself think about what they might be doing to Sirius in the meantime.

With a disgusted look, Edmund turned to his brother. “He won’t speak.”

“Really.” Peter was sitting on the floor, being doctored by Susan and Lucy. The bleeding had mostly stopped and they’d managed to wind a bandage around his head, but Harry still thought he looked awfully pale.

Harry gripped his wand tightly. He kept his eyes on the Pevensies, so he wouldn’t have to see the bodies bleeding on the floor. More, so that he wouldn’t have to look at Remus, who was more terrifyingly angry than Harry had ever seen him. Something in his stance reminded him of the pictures of werewolves he’d seen in library books. Predatory. Frightening. _It’s Remus._ But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the wolf too.

Peter let Edmund pull him to his feet, and walked steadily to the man Remus had thrown against the wall in fury. “Susan. Take Lucy and Harry into another room, please.” And there was something in that level voice that Harry had never heard before. Chills stampeded down his spine.

He pulled away from Susan’s hand, ignoring the warning look she shot him. _I’m not going anywhere!_ He couldn’t just stay here and do _nothing_ – they’d taken Sirius! “But -” he protested.

The Death Eater laughed. “You think you can get me to tell you anything?” His voice was horrid; gleeful. Happy.

Harry’s fingers clenched so tight around his wand, he thought he might snap it. Lucy squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, Harry.”

“Yes.”

Harry froze in the doorway, staring back at Peter. _How can he sound so certain?_

“Or?” the man sneered.

Peter’s face was very calm, despite his pallor. Blue eyes shone brightly. “Or I’ll let Remus have you.”

The man jerked at that; Harry saw him glance at the wizard who was glaring at him, radiating pure _death_. And the way the man cowered back, as if he could burrow into the wall, told Harry that the Death Eater knew Remus was a werewolf.

Lucy tried to pull him back, out and away from the scene of so much death and destruction, but he shrugged her off. _No -_

“Trust me.” Peter’s voice rang with conviction. “Nothing Lucius Malfoy could do to you would equal what will happen if you don’t tell me everything you know. _Now._ ”

The man jumped at the command, eyes slipping back to Peter. And he started to talk, quietly at first. About a ceremony planned for the night of the lunar eclipse, to bring Voldemort back to life. Harry heard that, and nearly screamed; Susan looked on in confusion as Lucy’s hands flew to her mouth.

Edmund paled, and even Remus jerked – but Peter’s face stayed calm, and the blade he held to the man’s neck did not waver.

“It’s tonight. They needed Black for the ritual; blood of an enemy of the Dark Lord, to give him a body again. Malfoy thought a pureblood would be best. More powerful than Muggle or half-blood,” the man spat. 

Peter’s eyes narrowed; Harry burst out, “What are we going to do?”

No one answered him.

“How much time do we have?”

The man glared at him. Remus stepped in, his voice unnervingly level. “These things usually can’t take place until the full eclipse. That won’t be for another half-hour.” Harry didn’t want to think about how he was so sure.

“Tell me about the attack on Minerva McGonagall.”

The Death Eater looked perplexed. “It was a ruse. Just to get Dumbledore and that damn Order looking somewhere else. Malfoy killed Nott for letting himself be seen.”

One final question, it seemed. Harry hung on every low word – he could only just hear from his place in the doorway of the foyer. “Where is the ceremony to be held?”

“In the ForbiddenForest,” the man muttered, grudging every word. “In a clearing on the western edge.”

“You’re going to lead us there.”

* * *

****_(Lucy)_ ** **

* * *

_Gulp_.

_That sounds like an angry bullfrog._ Only it definitely wasn’t.

“This way.”

Remus’ knuckles were white on the Death Eater’s shoulder. He didn’t take his wand from the small of the man’s back. “Are you _sure?_ ”

Lucy eyed the black-robed man in distaste as he shuddered. The Death Eater had tried to run once; he hadn’t gotten far. Remus’ patience was gone, into a jerky, controlled panic. _Sirius is his brother._ Or close enough by now. _He’s terrified._ She remembered, all too clearly, how _that_ felt.

“Y- yes.”

And Lucy had no patience for one of the men who had attacked them, and stolen the wizard away. She pushed a pine-needled branch back. They hadn’t reached the Dark part of the Forest yet; the normal trees she had wandered through in younger years still surrounded them on all sides. _It shouldn’t be much farther now . . ._

The forest slipped slowly into Darkness, though most people – Muggle and magical – believed that it was evil throughout. It wasn’t, not at all. _But then, most people don’t know about the Mansion. And we’ve managed to keep it that way._

Remus stilled, and Peter slipped to his side; just another shadow under the leaves. A soft _clink_ of metal was the only thing that gave him away; her brothers had paused to slip into mail before setting out again. She wasn’t wearing hers –

_Then again, they didn’t intend to let me come at all._ Once she’d heard that – there was no wayshe was letting them ship her off to Hogsmeade with Susan and Harry. She was the closest thing to a doctor they had, even if humans weren’t her usual patients. But better than nothing at all, magic or no.

“What is it?”

“The moon.” His voice was tight. “We’re running out of time.”

“Let’s go.”

And their pace through the thorny underbrush increased. Lucy shivered, dodging a knotty root jutting purposefully from the ground, just to trip someone up. This was the start of it, then. Peter had never let them get this far before.

And then a darkness deeper than night slipped over her skin, and she knew they were truly within the ForbiddenForest now, having left the last vestige of the non-magical world behind.

“Be careful,” Edmund hissed to her. She kept alert, but felt so much better knowing he was at her side. _Thank you, Edmund._

The wizard had paused a moment, and she gave the Death Eater a suspicious stare. She’d be quiet too if her brothers were glaring at her like that. _But – he’s sniffing the air?_ _What is he doing?_

“Remus?” Edmund asked quietly.

“We’re getting close. I can smell them.” He didn’t talk about it, but she had taken advantage of the books in the Hogwarts library, as had Peter and Edmund. The wolf’s enhanced senses bled over to the human as well, leaving Remus with more acute smell, sight, and hearing. _Among other things._ “This way.”

And soon she could hear as well; a loud voice, trickling through the trees with a strange sense of rhythm and power. _A spell? But -_

Remus stopped dead, staring upward. _What is it –oh!_ Through a break in the branches, she could see the sky clearly. And the slender sliver of new moon, painted in shades of orange and red.

The Death Eater laughed, an ugly, satisfied sound. “You’re too late.”        

* * *

****_(Sirius)_ ** **

* * *

_“Bone of the father, unknowingly taken.”_

The cauldron smoked darkly, spewing the scent and taste of grave-soil and death into the air. Sirius fought to breathe.

Lucius Malfoy waited, gazing up at the shimmering red slice of moon visible through the trees. The lunar eclipse would last less than an hour, and his only saving grace was that Malfoy had to be slow with this potion; slow and careful. _For maximum results, that is. Any fool can dump in the ingredients and have success._ But the finer nuances of this potion demanded patience. Something he was short on at the moment.

But not too far off was Avery, a silent presence among the black robes that Sirius had marked immediately. _My wand._ And it was in the Death Eater’s possession. Get it, and he could get free. _A little harder than it sounds. But not impossible._

Malfoy had the unconscious Gibbon brought forth, and Sirius winced as the brilliant steel of the blade in his hand caught the reflection of the bloody moon, and held it. Edge was set to flesh, and crimson spurted.

_No. Don’t look away. See. Know how he’ll approach, how to maneuver around, and get free._ But he still didn’t know why he was conscious. It would be much easier for them if he wasn’t. But he would make them regret it. He had few ideas as to what this ceremony constituted; the air around him _reeked_ of Dark magic. It made his skin crawl.

_“Flesh of the servant, willingly given.”_

A macabre, humorous thought struck him. _I doubt Gibbon sees it that way._ But the man was dead. He could tell that even fifteen feet away. Lucius Malfoy slipped the other Death Eater’s heart into the gurgling, hungry potion.

Liquid hissed greedily, bubbling up and speaking with a demon’s voice. And even as the boil settled, icy blue eyes, all-pupil in the darkness, fixed on him. _This is it._

Malfoy stared at him, and Sirius glared back, matching hate with hate. Black robes swished a step closer. Two. _Now!_

He powered to his feet, bound hands knocking elm aside. Caught unawares, Malfoy sprawled in the dirt, wand flying. _Go, go, go!_ Sirius tackled Avery, a vicious knee to the solar plexus having the man wheezing beneath him. The other Death Eaters were startled but starting to move. No time left. _Where is it!_ Fingers closed on familiar silvery-white wood.

_“Acripressi!”_

A steel vise encircled his ribs and began to squeeze. He could still move, however. Two quick spells later, his voice was his own and Avery was unconscious in the dirt. It was getting hard to breathe. 

Sirius lunged to his feet, and took aim at the cauldron. _“Reducto!”_

As the spell left his lips, the band around his ribs cinched tight. He wavered, gasping for air – and the spell missed. _Damn. Where is –_

_“Crucio!”_

_Pain._ Burning cold and fiery hot and scraping along every nerve, shooting agony racking muscle and bone, dissolving thought and he couldn’t _breathe_ –

Hands on him, lifting and dragging. Sirius gasped for air, spots whirling in his vision, but the bands around his ribs had eased. Hot, rancid smoke burned his lungs; he coughed. Slowly the clearing came back into focus – as did an enraged Lucius Malfoy, fresh blade in hand. And the cauldron not an arm’s-length from his face. But more frightening than the Death Eater’s fury was the way it suddenly cooled and slipped into smug humor.

He fought.

But three Death Eaters were on him; more, grabbing his left arm and tearing up the sleeve of his robes to bare the forearm. His wand was wrenched from his fingers and carelessly tossed aside.

And Lucius Malfoy’s malicious glee gleamed down at him as he set the edge to skin. _“Blood of the enemy, forcefully taken.”_

And there was more pain, though he could barely register it. A strange draining of strength; and the blackness returned to wreak mad havoc with his sight. Ringing filled his ears – he gasped for air, but –

Malfoy reached for a basket, shoving him aside. Sirius saw a ripple of scales, slithering into the cauldron.

The clearing was swept into madness.

* * *

****_(Travers)_ ** **

* * *

He crouched in the bushes, one wand and two swords poking into him. He swallowed, gulping hard. _If I could just get forward a little – give them away –_

But the sharp gazes spearing him promised death at the slightest movement. There would be a chance. There was always a chance. But to move now would guarantee his demise at the hands of the three men who, though their attention was riveted on the clearing, had not forgotten about him.

The ritual was almost complete – Black had fought, but the Death Eaters had closed ranks, concealing the cauldron and the inconspicuous basket nearby. The basket that held his Lord’s host. Soon, though . . . .

_“Blood of the enemy, forcefully taken.”_

A gasp to his left; the woman, eyes wide and horrified. He smirked. _Maybe now they understand. They cannot stop us. They never could._      

He heard a sharp cry; and the fizzling of the potion as it loudly sucked up each precious ruby drop. A break in black robes let him see the highest-ranking Death Eater, holding Black’s arm over the steaming liquid. The man slumped. Crimson flowed. And Malfoy was shoving the sacrifice back, now, reaching for the basket –

A hissing, louder than any snake he’d ever heard, shivered through the branches. He could _taste_ the Dark magic on the wind – and it was as intoxicating as he remembered. Travers sucked in a deep breath, pulling it into his lungs, his very being – and felt euphoria well up. He couldn’t suppress the laugh. Didn’t want to.

A hand between his shoulder-blades, hurling him out from the protection of leafy greenery. Wands snapped his direction; shouts deafened him.

There was a spell coming his way – a jet of green light –

And then there was nothing at all.

* * *

****_(Voldemort)_ ** **

* * *

_Flesh._ Ohhhh, _yes_.

And power, lying just underneath the new skin sleeking down to contain his soul. Built of heart-flesh and scales, it fit more perfectly than the meager body he’d been birthed to. _And nourished by blood. Pure blood._

Unlike his father, who had passed his taint to a son he had abandoned. Who had given him life once more . . . he _knew_ how this had come to be. _Bone of the father, unknowingly taken._

The creature that had once been a boy named Tom Riddle stretched gloriously. Spells were streaking through the air in flashes of color, wondrous to see. Smoke and the smell of death curled deliciously through his senses; screams and incantations were symphony to his ears. _Appropriate, that I am born again in the midst of a battle._

For the violence he meant to ravage on them, it was appropriate indeed. He opened his eyes wide, feeling them burn red. Slitted nostrils flared; he breathed deeply of airborne chaos.

And power rushed through his veins, thrilling to his call as he raised his hands to form a robe out of smoke and darkness with which to clothe himself. Cloth manifested from nothing, and the slash that was his mouth tilted approvingly.

He stepped from the cauldron, exulting in the play of muscle and bone, and took in the scene around him.

The ForbiddenForest, with a glimmering red new-moon dripping bloody illumination down on them all. _Malfoy has chosen well._ Though his servant had not been as careful as he should; a battle raged throughout the small clearing. Seven of his followers, and one dead man in Death Eater robes. Spells were ricocheting about haphazardly, with almost panicked haste; though Malfoy appeared to be attempting to direct them.

Spells shot randomly from the forest around them, guerilla strikes, there and gone in the flicker of an eye. But that was not what caught his attention.

There were two of them, armed and armored; wielding sharp-edged swords and shields, advancing and engaging Death Eaters who scrambled to see that their spells had no effect. Red orbs narrowed, lasering in on the fighters. _No wands._ Not a speck of magic in these dull lumps of humanity. But no spell aimed their way, not even the Killing Curse, landed its mark. Flashes of power disappeared, or missed altogether. A foreign feeling of interest filled him; it had been far too long since a challenge had presented itself.

_What is this magic?_

He had brewed Dark potions and drunk them down with a willing heart. He had ensorcelled himself, and cast spells other wizards trembled to think of. He had flooded mere flesh with euphoric power beyond even his own wildest dreams –

But he had never seen anything like this.

A memory tickled, teased – and slipped away as the spell that rebirthed him, a snake shedding its skin, rid itself of the last traces of scales. A deep, gluttonous breath convinced him. _I am alive._

And all the power he had gathered through decades of transformations was there in his grasp, and more, even, from this final spell. But – _I will have this magic._ No matter that it was no power to contend with his; he was fascinated, by this ability to repel even an Unforgivable.

A croaked spell at his feet. _“Exsanguine.”_

He stared down, to find a man with a shaking wand hand casting a blood-clotting charm on a livid gash in his arm. _So this is my enemy._ And the head lifted, and he recognized aristocratic features, blue eyes, and black hair. And felt the first stirrings of good humor inside. “Sirius Black.” _The man who fought me and yet led his friends into my net –_ and he stared, considering the consequences of that. He had killed the Potters, certainly. But what had befallen him then . . . _And perhaps it was I who fell into a trap of his making_. . .   

Though that Mudblood witch, who had given her life for her son – she had surprised him even in death.

Shaking and weak, the man glared back nonetheless. “Voldemort.” He could almost _taste_ the hatred. . . . _Lucius did chose well; pure blood and such power . . ._ but it was not the Potter brat, whose blood carried a charm that would defy him. For a short time. _My servant will know my displeasure._

He had no wand – but at this moment, flushed with power, he did not need one. Marveling still in the ability to control flesh that flexed with human proportions, he raised a hand, finger pointing. _“Avada -”_

Something barreled into him, knocking him away, and he redirected all the fury of a Lord thwarted into the blast that would incinerate the feeble worm who dared –

The explosion rocked the clearing, licking flames over tree-leaves and scorching the dirt. But the figure staring him down, cool and composed behind chainmail and sword, did not waver. He found his feet again, attention diverted to the blond man who thought to oppose him. And saw a familiar wand, of yew and phoenix feather, had been waiting for him on a rock beside the cauldron from which he had stepped. _Lucius will tell me how he acquired it._

But fingers were caressing wood that had been missing for longer than a decade, and his mouth tilted, again, in something approximating a smile. For now he had a new opponent, and the wizard unconscious on the ground would be worthy of his attention later.

His Death Eaters were rallying; but only three were left standing. He heard Lucius scream as the other Muggle whipped a metal shield across his face. The most loyal of his followers was unconscious in the dirt, a deep gash across one cheek. _Incompetent._ Though not quite so much as the others who were already down. They would feel the full force of his ire; but first he would dispose of the one who thought himself worthy to oppose him.

* * *

****_7 August 1994_ ** **

* * *

****_(Susan)_ ** **

* * *

  


“Thank you, Madam Rosmerta.”

Dangling earrings bobbed as the witch nodded congenially despite the early hour. “It’s no trouble at all, my dear. I’m sure that Dumbledore won’t mind at all.” The other woman winked, and Susan managed a tight smile. “The man does keep rather strange hours.” Tacit acceptance, then, of the stranger at her door with an even stranger request. But Rosmerta wasn’t doing this for her.

At her side, Harry looked painfully hopeful. His hands strangled the bottle of butterbeer Rosmerta had found for him, kindly ushering them to the corner and away from the few customers remaining in the Three Broomsticks just after one in the morning.

A shaggy, gray-haired man was facedown on the bar at the other end, a once-white napkin fluttering in the flow of gentle snores. Susan took her time, looking around. It was a nice place, for a pub. Clean and well-kept, and it had the feel to it of both a place where a family could enjoy dinner, as well as where a solitary witch or wizard could find a bit of peace and a drink. It wouldn’t be her usual choice, but – _I like it._ And Rosmerta herself was comfortingly, well, _ordinary._ For a witch.

_And you can’t keep distracting yourself from what’s really bothering you._ But she could try. She didn’t want to think about the hurried bits and pieces of information about this Dark wizard her family had managed to tell her, before Peter insisted she take the car and go. Lucy had fought to go with them, and none of her older siblings had been about to yield – until she ruthlessly, and truly, pointed out that of them all, she was the closest to being a doctor. For all her biology, Susan dealt with the inanimate. Not people.

And she wouldn’t think of how her brothers might need that help, how pale Peter had been as they set out –

“I’ve gotten a hold of him for you, dearie,” Rosmerta’s voice cut into her thoughts. Surprised, Susan jerked; and was absurdly grateful for the interruption.

“Harry,” she turned to the tense boy. He twisted toward her, as tightly wound as she. “Perhaps it’d be best if you spoke with him.” He knew more than she did, would be of better help to someone who would help them. _And I – don’t really remember him,_ she could admit to herself.

The boy nodded, and Rosmerta ushered him into a back room, with a private fireplace where he could finish the call in peace. She didn’t know what one man could do, but Harry had been so insistent, and the female barkeep hadn’t blinked at the odd request.

“Time to go home, ey, Rufus?” Rosmerta hefted a small, balding man who was mumbling to himself over a whiskey, and expertly maneuvered him to the door. “I don’t know what Mia will say to me if -”

They stopped dead on the threshold, staring at the sky. The man gibbered in sudden panic; Rosmerta let out a short, sharp scream that cut off as suddenly as it began. Susan was beside them without remembering slipping off her stool.

The moon was no longer colored in blood; it was a pale, silvery sliver in the sky, wiped clean. But that wasn’t what had entrapped their attention. _Black_ , she registered. Black and green against the darkness of a night sky dotted with stars, the skull grinned down at them. From between its teeth wound a snake, shimmering and evil and utterly frightening.

_What does it mean?_ From the expressions of horror she could see around her, she didn’t want to know. Susan shivered.

* * *

****_(Edmund)_ ** **

* * *

They were gone.

_All but the bodies, at least._ He wouldn’t have thought Death Eaters especially loyal to one another, but that probably had nothing to do with why they had taken their unconscious fellows with them. _After all, there’s no chance of betrayal if you don’t let them get captured by the Ministry in the first place._

“When are you going to learn to do as you’re told?” But Peter was smiling at him, and Ed could tell he didn’t really mean it.

He grinned cheekily back, pulling himself up from the dirt. “You’ve been asking me that since I was ten. Don’t you think it’s time to give up?” Voldemort’s spells might be nothing against Aslan’s might and the mark of His love, but they were powerful enough to affect the very air around them. The world was altered by the wake of the spell as it ripped through the air; it was like getting hit by a lorry.

Peter snorted. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

And with that, they turned their attention to the wounded. Remus was crouched next to his friend; hadn’t been able to stay under cover when the Dark Lord’s attention had fixed on the ex-convict. Lucy was at his side, a calm, white-faced presence with bandages and soothing words as Sirius stirred.

“-extensive blood loss,” she was saying as they approached. “The charm helped, but we need to get you to a real doctor.”

“St. Mungo’s,” Remus said.

“Remus -”

Edmund would have thought that that glare would quell anyone. Not so. Sirius stared right back, though his weakness was clear. The cut on his arm wasn’t an immediately lethal blow, slashing diagonal across skin, but it was close enough.

“St. Mungo’s,” Remus repeated firmly.

A sigh. “Fine, Moony.”

“Can you Apparate?”

_He barely looks able to stand._ Pale and shaking, Sirius seemed to think about that, and finally nodded. “If we go soon.”

“Go,” Peter interjected. The older Pevensie looked to his siblings; Edmund nodded. _We can get back ourselves._ And with the Dark Mark hovering overhead, ForbiddenForest or no, they would leave soon. The eclipse was long over, and Edmund had a feeling that someone would be coming to investigate here very soon.

Soon enough that they had no time to dispose of the two bodies, broken ragdolls slumped on the dirt.

Edmund kept his gaze turned away. He and Peter never killed unless it was absolutely necessary. _Though I hope Lucius Malfoy hurts for quite a while!_ With the state of magical medicine it was unlikely, but more than possible.

Remus looked at them all. “Alright.”

With twin _crack_ s, the two wizards were gone.

“Come on.” Peter looked at them both, and surveyed the Forest. They were safe enough; the Dark magics thrown about in the clearing having frightened off even the less easily intimidated denizens of the Forest. _But I don’t want to stay here a second longer than I have to._ “Let’s go home.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Magic I’ve made up, staying as true to the method as possible. Not canon, but fun!
> 
>  
> 
> Aboleo – From the Latin, meaning “I banish”. Causes a violent outward explosion.
> 
> Acripressi – creates a sharp pressure on target, impeding breathing in living things. Frightening torture spell, used to scare the victim rather than actually hurt. Damaging only in the long-term.
> 
> Decimate – directly from the Latin (and English too, hurrah for cognates!). Causes chaos.
> 
> Exsanguine – blood-clotting charm. More mutilated Latin; I could have sworn this one was canon, somewhere, but perhaps I’m confusing it with the UU again, which I do with amusing regularity. Whatever – IMHO, the UU is better anyway, but you already knew that . . . apologies if I’ve murdered canon unbearably, or stolen from the UU – I didn’t mean to!
> 
> Perspicax – directly from the Latin. Causes penetrating, acute pain.


	5. Chapter 5

 

* * *

****_(Aileen)_  ** **

* * *

 “And what exactly is my role in this?” She warily eyed the clearing.

Gawain Robards, head of the Auror division, glanced sideways at her. She couldn’t properly read his expression; no matter the time of day, the ForbiddenForest was always dark. But it seemed especially so just before dawn. “Liaison,” he stated.

“Yes, I _know_ that -” Aileen smothered a sigh. Maybe it was that she’d been dragged from her warm bed far too early this morning. Maybe it was juggling an emergency fire call as well as a sudden phone call from Bert. _Maybe it was because I didn’t have a chance to get any coffee before I had to Apparate here._ “But what, specifically, do you need me for? I mean, an investigation of this-” and she _wasn’t_ going to look at the Dark Mark, still glowing brightly in the sky, “- nature isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

Maybe it was because of the nature of the fire call. _‘Emergency – Forbidden Forest - Williamson is dead - Anyone in the area, please respond!’_ And since she technically worked with the Aurors, she’d had to. _Rudimentary training is not enough for this!_ Thank Merlin she’d arrived to find the professionals already had the situation well in hand. She’d been able to stop shaking, at least; but when she’d tried to go home – well.

Robards grimaced. _Oh, that is not an expression I want to see on his face . . ._ She didn’t know the man, but she knew his reputation. Tougher than nails, experienced, intelligent. Few in the Wizarding world wanted to go up against him; fewer who tried got away with it. _All in all, I’m_ very _glad he’s on our side._

“There’s an indication that some of the victims were killed non-traditionally,” he said evasively.

_I didn’t get anywhere near enough sleep for this._ What came out of her mouth was, “Huh?”

She’d been poking into some of Gram Macready’s old things, a diary specifically, to try to find out more about the mansion, and the academic who’d lived there. Anything that might give her clues as to why Pevensie was there. And she’d only gotten to bed five scant hours before being rudely hauled from it.

“ – the Killing Curse,” he was saying.

She gave him her politest _I’m-confused_ look, and hoped that he decided to repeat himself.

“Williamson was doing an emergency search and recapture after a call came in from Hogsmeade about a loose Dementor.”

She followed the older Auror around the glimmer of magic cordoning off a small clearing. There were several moving forms, and just as many still ones, beyond it. Aileen focused in on Robard’s back. “Dementors? In the Forest?”

She could practically hear the scowl in his voice. “Minister Fudge was doing an inspection of Hogwarts at the beginning of June,” he said neutrally. “At the time, it was believed that Sirius Black was going to be headed for the area. The Minister insisted upon a protective escort of Dementors, given that nothing else was likely to stop an attack on his person.” They reached a hollow between two trees; Aileen’s feet stuttered to a stop. 

She registered wide brown eyes in a face slack with death. The skin was a sickening gray-white; and from the dead Auror’s expression, he had seen it coming. She shuddered.

“The Minister signed custody of twelve Dementors,” Robard grunted, maneuvering carefully around the body, eyes sharp. “And returned with ten.”

Aileen hadn’t thought she could get any colder. “And they’re in the ForbiddenForest.”

Robard nodded, rising from his crouch at the dead man’s side. “It’s more than likely, yes.” He frowned down at still features, and then turned to face her. She was taken aback by the leashed anger in his stance.

“But this isn’t the Kiss,” she offered, turning her attention back to the body. Anything, to not see the vitriolic sorrow hanging about the head of the Aurors.

“No,” the man replied after a long, silent moment. “Williamson was a victim of the Killing Curse. And there are four dead Death Eaters, three with sword wounds through their hearts.”

Aileen stared, tripping over a root in her shock. “What?” Strong fingers found her elbow, steadying her.

“That’s why we need your help,” Robard said bluntly, guiding her toward the magic cordon. Green eyes widened. _I really don’t want to do this._ But he pushed her neatly through the barrier, and she entered into a scene of categorized chaos.

_Three bodies – and –_ _mediwitch examiners, and Aurors._

“He’s missing his heart, Gawain!” called one of the mediwitches.

_Merlin, I’m going to be sick._

The man at her side nodded. “Bag them, and transfer to the Ministry morgue after you’ve finished the preliminary notes. Cause of death?”

This time, a young man answered. “Gee, Gawain, I don’t know. It might be the massive sword wound through his chest, but I’m afraid I’m not completely sure – I might be missing something -”

The other man snickered.

_Steady on,_ Aileen thought, amused by the macabre sarcasm in spite of herself. Nonetheless, green eyes remained firmly focused elsewhere. And there was much to see; one Auror was moving through the clearing, tagging and bagging evidence. Yet another had a camera, and was following paths of multicolored, glowing footprints.

“Each distinct footprint is tagged with a different color,” Robards explained, noting her interest. “When the spell activates, it travels through a specific area identifying whole and partial footprints from the initial template, which is indicated by the caster.”

“Mr. Robards,” Aileen managed to remain polite, even though she wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed, pull the blankets over her head, and not move for about a week. “This is all very interesting, but I’m not sure what -”

“You answered the distress call?”

Off-balance, she glared at him. “Of course.”

“Let me explain why we need your skills,” Robard sighed. He glanced up, just for a moment; Aileen refused to follow his gaze. She knew what she would see. _The Dark Mark._ When he spoke again, his voice was much lower. “There has been a rash of Death Eater activities in the past month, ever since Peter Pettigrew was locked in Azkaban. I’m sure you’re familiar with the attack on Professor McGonagall. My sources have been bandying about a few rumors that appear to be more resilient than the norm.”

She frowned at him.

“Frankly,” he sighed, “Some pieces of the lower end of our world think that You-Know-Who has returned.”

Aileen stared. _He can’t be serious!_

“I don’t think he has,” Robard said firmly. _Probably saw me panicking,_ Aileen thought, a little calmer. “But every so often an imitator comes along, proclaiming to be the Dark Lord returned, and tries to muster up support. Things like this -” he gestured around the clearing, “- start to happen.

“Only this time, I think we have something different on our hands.”

Aileen stared at him, as evenly as if she were giving an interrogation. “And I can help how?”

“The evidence indicates that whoever this person is, he uses Muggle methods of killing, not just magic. And that Death Eaters are turning up dead?” Robards shrugged. “A Dark Lord wannabe, punishing the unfaithful. And then,” he pointed to a set of footprints leading out and away. Aileen’s breath caught. “Disappearing, not Disapparating. We don’t know for certain, but we think . . . he’s hiding among the Muggles.”

 

* * *

****_(Peter)_****

* * *

“Ow!”

“Stop squirming,” Lucy ordered, dabbing at his head once more with the wet cloth. “You really should have stitches in this,” she fussed.

He ignored that; turned his attention instead to the brother he was still scolding. “You attacked Malfoy. _Without_ a weapon?” He was going to strangle the other man. Slowly.

“I lost my sword,” Ed shrugged. “But I still had my shield.”

_And ripping the edge across Lucius Malfoy’s face was the only thing you could think to do?_ Peter sighed. “He’ll hate you for that, Ed.”

Edmund snorted. “I have no fear of him. He doesn’t even know who I am.”

“Unless he sees you at Hogwarts,” Peter pointed out tightly, shifting away from Lucy’s probing fingers. _Doesn’t he see the danger?_ “He _is_ one of the school governors.”

Edmund shrugged. Peter glared.

“You can’t protect us from everything, Peter,” the dark-haired man said softly. Peter frowned. His brother knew him entirely too well.

“I can try,” he muttered.

Lucy sighed, winding the bandage around his head. “Keep it dry,” she ordered absently. “You have a concussion; you’re calling in sick to work.”

_No use arguing with_ that _tone._ “Yes, Mum,” he teased.

Lucy rolled her eyes, and shared a speaking glance with Edmund. A knock on the door interrupted whatever his brother was about to say. Susan poked her head in, and gave them a wan smile.

“Can I talk with you, Peter?”

“Sure.”

Lucy and Edmund didn’t even bother with excuses, slipping out of the room as their sister slid inside.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, just as he began to shift uncomfortably. “For what I said the other day. I didn’t know -”

“And that’s the problem, Susan.” _Gently, gently._ But he still cut her off, and held up a hand when she stepped forward. He eyed her hands, wringing together anxiously. “A lot has happened in the past twenty years. You haven’t been here for it – and you _don’t_ know how it has changed us. And we _have_ changed.” He grinned. “For what it’s worth, so have you.” _And in a good way._

Susan managed a smile at that. “I guess we all have.” She took a deep breath. “But I want to try again. And -” she met his gaze squarely. “I wanted to let you know – I’m not going anywhere.”

He blinked, wondering if he’d hit his head harder than he thought. She wasn’t making any sense. _Or she’s making too much sense._ “Su?”

She glanced at him. “I see how you act. You, and Edmund, and Lucy. Like you’re not sure I’m here. You’re afraid to say what you really think. Because you think that I won’t like it. And I’ll leave.”

Susan usually wasn’t perceptive; people didn’t make sense to her the way books did. _Change,_ Peter reminded himself. But even so. . . “Won’t you?”      

She shook her head, determined in a way he’d rarely seen from her before. “No. I want my family back just as much as you do.”

_More,_ he knew with sudden insight. _Because you’ve been alone so long._ “Alright,” he said quietly. “No more secrets. No more hiding.”

“And a bit more understanding,” she offered, her smile as tentative as his.

Peter nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair. Fingers encountered a bandage, and pulled back. _Not perfect, but it’s a start._ And in that case, there was no putting it off any longer. “We need to talk to you,” he said seriously. “Ed, Lu and I. About where we were all last year; but more importantly, why.”

“Why?” Blue eyes, so like his own, were concernedly curious.

Peter nodded, taking a deep breath. “It’s important. And I know you don’t remember most of it. It – will be hard to hear.”

“Alright,” Susan nodded. He could see her trying to stay calm, though her fingers clenched on the table edge. “Let’s go find Ed and Lucy, then.”

 

* * *

****_(Snape)_ ** **

* * *

“I swear to you, I didn’t know.” He knew his face was pale; and he couldn’t roll his sleeve over the Mark burning on his forearm. He hadn’t known. _Until the summons._

Then, he’d seen something that he’d prayed to never see again. Voldemort, embodied once more and vengeful with it.

Albus sighed, weariness leaking through just a bit. “I know, Severus.” The old man tugged absently at his beard. “Who orchestrated the ritual?”

Snape curled a derisive lip. “Lucius Malfoy.” He might have known the older man briefly during school, but the only thing he could trust about him was that Lucius was utterly untrustworthy. _That, and blood will always win out._ A half-blood in Slytherin? His first three years at Hogwarts had been pure hell, and not because of Potter and his trio of pranking friends.

Dumbledore nodded, slowly. “I see.”

“Apparently, Lucius stumbled across an Auror in the Forest, and killed him before starting the ceremony. He sent a team of Death Eaters – twelve, total, to capture Sirius Black to represent the enemy.” Severus shrugged; Dumbledore was intent upon him, gathering all the information he could. “The protections you put upon Potter were sufficient enough to deter him. The Dark Lord was . . . displeased.” _I haven’t seen anyone suffer that long under the Cruciatus without going mad._ But then again, Voldemort had always known exactly what he was about. _Couldn’t happen to a nicer wizard,_ Severus thought with no little satisfaction.

“Apparently, Jugson, Wilkes and Yaxley were killed immediately. Rammesy and Legarde were reported dead by Macnair. Travers was captured, and led a group back to the clearing. Where they weren’t in time to stop the ceremony, but managed to rescue Black. And wreak bloody havoc.” He raised a black brow. “I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of Lupin.”

The other professor was powerful and intelligent, despite being a werewolf; having him as an enemy was something Snape hadn’t considered before, but was worried about now. Though the quality of his friends had ensured it during their school days. He would never like Sirius Black; but Severus had enough guilt on his soul to know what the man must feel now. To have been a vessel, even unwilling, that returned the evil which had killed his best friends to life –

_I will not pity him._ He didn’t even want to understand Black. So he changed the subject.

“And last night was an eclipse of the moon.” Dumbledore reached for a lemon drop, thoughtfully popped it into his mouth. “Go on.”

_Time to go on the offensive. I want to know what you haven’t told me._ Oh, Dumbledore was well aware of his precarious position as a spy. Knew that he was, as a rule, as incurious as humanly possible. Knowing too much would get others killed. But this – he needed to know _why_ Lucius Malfoy was so ragingly furious at a group of Muggles. And it _wasn’t_ the scar slashing across his cheek; a mark their Lord had decreed that he would bear without healing, as punishment for his failure to secure Harry Potter and for allowing them to be tracked. “Why were you hiding the Pevensies here last year?”

The man didn’t so much as flinch. _Damn._ “That is not my secret to tell, Severus.” _So I was right._ A bushy white brow raised in implication; Snape was grateful now for years of spying that meant he’d lost the ability to blush. “But if you speak with them, I’m sure they would consider enlightening you.” The white head of hair tilted. “Why?”

Severus shrugged, still casual as he considered the advice. Dumbledore truly cared about the Wizarding world’s survival, and those of the Order with whom he worked closely. And there were few wizards in the world who had earned Snape’s trust. “I’ve never seen Lucius so wholly furious with anyone. Nor with such. . . . lasting anger.” He stared at the other man seriously. “If Malfoy gets anywhere near Pevensie, one of them will die.”

“And you’re not certain it would be Pevensie?”

Snape shrugged. _I can hope._ “If he got close enough to scar Lucius and lived – the odds are close to even.”

Dumbledore nodded, slowly. The silence was filled with the noise of the Headmaster sucking on the lemon drop. “It seems that our reprieve is over,” the older man sighed at last. Twinkling blue eyes found his, and Snape felt a chill creep over him. There could only be one thing that he could do, now that the war had begun again.

“We need all the information we can get, Severus,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Would you be willing to act as a double agent once more?”

_Do I have a choice?_ He was alive – and had responded to the summons. But to at least have the semblance of a decision laid in front of him. . . _Thank you for that, Albus._ It was little enough, but it made a difference. “Yes,” he said bleakly. “I’ll do it.”      

* * *

****_(Sirius)_ ** **

* * *

“How are you feeling?”

Remus and Harry were waiting in the doorway; he smiled a little. “Good as new.” _If not for knowing that –_ He glanced at the bandaged arm. “Not even a scar.” _But I’ve been marked._ _It won’t go away._ He accepted the knowledge as he had every other evil thing in his life, and then put it away.

Remus shot him a look that said the little lie hadn’t been believed in the slightest, but Harry smiled at him in relief. _Worth it._ Though he’d have to talk to Moony later, no doubt.

“When are they releasing you?”

Sirius grinned as his godson perched on the edge of the high hospital bed. “The nurse just went to get the papers now. I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”

Remus grinned, and nudged Harry. “They probably can’t wait to get rid of him. He’s housetrained something awful.”

James’ son grinned; Sirius glowered.

“You’re one to be throwing stones, Moony,” he replied archly, highly offended. The attitude broke when Remus poked him in the side. “Hey!”

* * *

****_(Remus)_ ** **

* * *

Sirius paled when he stood, but he waved them grumpily away. “I can get dressed without help,” he protested. _Blood loss, still,_ he judged. Magic could do many things – but Sirius had bled quite a lot before he’d gotten help. And healed or no, it would take time before his body replaced what had been lost.

_Taken. Used._

Lucius Malfoy was a vindictive bastard. The cut he’d made had been deep, but not quite a suicide-slash. It had ensured that Sirius was still alive when he’d arrived at the clearing; but if they hadn’t shown up, there was no telling what he would have done. Remus stilled the wolf’s rage that rose up in him, wanting nothing more than to rend and tear bloody scraps of flesh from the bones of one who had _dared_ to harm his pack –

“Remus?”

Sirius pulled the curtain back, fully dressed in the Muggle clothes every wizard wore under their robes. The robes themselves were draped over his good arm. Sirius had also managed to wriggle back into the sling the nursing staff had insisted he wear.

“Ready to go?” he managed.

Not fooled, Sirius gripped his arm. “It’s alright, Moony,” he said softly. “I’m still here.”

* * *

****_(Harry)_****

* * *

 

“Are you alright?”

Sirius was white to the lips, and sweating. “Fine,” he smiled. “Little tired, that’s all.”

They’d had to take the Knight Bus out to the Mansion; Sirius could Apparate, though the stringent medical advice was not to, but Harry couldn’t. So it had been a jerky, haphazard ride back to the Pevensies’.

“Right,” Remus snorted. “That’s what you told Madam Pomfrey after that match against Slytherin in fifth year. The one where the bludger managed to crack that thick block you call a skull?”

Sirius grinned at him. “I don’t remember that.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You had a concussion. And amnesia.”

Sirius shrugged, trying for nonchalant. “Still don’t remember. Sorry, Moony.”

Harry held back a laugh with difficulty. As they walked into the Mansion, he winced to see the evidence of the previous night’s battle. Oh, the bodies were gone, and the blood, but there were scorch marks and places where the marble floor was crushed to powder.

For all the destruction in the entranceway, however, the rest of the house was eerily untouched. _Kinda creepy._ Especially because he knew, appearances notwithstanding, that Death Eaters had gotten this far. _They were . . . everywhere._ It gave him the shivers.

“Hold up,” Sirius said, quiet and intense. Injured or not, he was still an Auror – and it showed. “Check for any stray presents our friends might have left.”

Remus nodded.

Harry frowned. “Presents?”

“Lingering spells,” Remus muttered, whispering an incantation that Harry didn’t quite catch. “Booby traps?”

“Ah.” Sirius cast another spell, and a section of the wall flared sickly black, before dying. “This side’s clear. I caught two. Moony?”

“One,” Remus answered, grimly pushing the door to Sirius’ room open. “I ought to check the rest of the Mansion. Just in case.”

“I’ll help -”

Harry and Remus pushed him back on the bed, moving as one. “You’ll rest,” the other Marauder corrected.

“Moony -”

Lupin glared. Harry watched in interest as a silent battle of wills took place. One that Remus seemed to be winning.

After a moment of useless glaring, Sirius laid back, and sighed. “Fine. Four hours -”

“Eight.”

“Five.”

Remus’ eyes narrowed. “Ten.”

Sirius balked, hands up in surrender. “Eight,” he laughed. “You win, Remus. And then we’ll clear out everything the Death Eaters left.” His gaze included the fourteen-year-old anxiously watching them both. “All of us.”

Harry grinned. “Together.”

* * *

****_(Draco)_ ** **

* * *

The murmurs grew intelligible as he snuck two careful steps forward, any thought of intention blanked from his mind. There were few shadows for him to hide in, so he pressed close to the wall. Instead of the new spell he was trying, Draco focused on the smooth silk of wood grain under sensitive fingers.

“- by a _Muggle?!_ ”  Mother, aghast and upset. For all her demure meekness in polite society, Narcissa had a core of steel. And among those who knew her, she never hesitated to show it.

“Regardless,” and he could almost see the careless wave, “It will heal.” _The scar._

They could only be talking about the slashing scar on Father’s cheek. Draco shivered. He’d tried to warn Edmund in time, when the Death Eaters had arrived at Malfoy Manor the other night – but the spells to conceal the owl to all but the letter’s recipient had taken precious time. But if the owl had been seen, or worse, intercepted –

“And now that our Lord has returned?” Mother, again. But there was something different in her voice. For all her own will, Mother and Father rarely disagreed. _Not where I can see them, at least._

“I am his right hand. I intend to introduce Draco to him.”

He couldn’t breathe.

“I wouldn’t.” Mother, now getting to her feet and advancing toward the desk. This new spell worked remarkably well; it had been worth the time and effort to get it right. “Unless you intend to bring to his own heir to his attention.”

Fingers pressed deeply into mahogany paneling. _What?_

“What?” Lucius sounded as shocked as Draco felt.

Disgust and fury in Mother’s voice – a dangerous combination. “Lord Voldemort has an heir. Or should I say, _had_.”

A gasping breath. Draco wished he could do as much.

“You cannot possibly mean -”

“I told you that your haste would mean your downfall,” Mother sneered.

“You never told me the boy’s father, no matter how I pressed you!” He had never heard his father sound so panicked before. “Had I known Nothos’ true heritage -”

And he was running, gone – heedless of the spell that dissolved in his wake, heedless of anything but the rush of blood in his ears. He didn’t let himself vomit until he had reached the concealing shrubbery outside the kitchen door.  

He couldn’t process – couldn’t think. Nothos, his beloved brother, heir to the very monster whose ideals had killed him? He’d known Nothos wasn’t pureblood, but that meant –

_Hypocrite._

Draco loosed a bitter laugh, kicking mulch over the mess he’d made. So Voldemort, champion of pure breeding, heir to Salazar Slytherin, was a half-blood? The irony was enough to make him ill.

But now that his thoughts collected themselves. . . he could see it. He’d always thought Nothos’ dark hair came from Mother’s side of the family. After all, Narcissa Black had been the palest of her sisters, though her aristocratic features were a shadowy echo of the pictures he’d seen of her cousin, Sirius Black. Those had been in history textbooks – the blood traitor was never mentioned by his family.

Blood traitor.

_Me._

He supposed he must be by now. Spying on his family, giving information to the ‘enemy’ – he couldn’t even use the word Mudblood now. He’d tried. But every time his mouth formed the first syllable he’d see his brother’s face, fuzzy with the age of the memory, and stop. But more than that – _I will see Voldemort dead._

He let the fury have free reign of his body for just a moment, cementing into hatred. That, he could pack away, and hide. There was safety in the fact that he was beneath his family’s notice until he finished school. When he reached legal majority however, that protection would be gone.

_Overlooked. Underestimated. Always._

And he would use it.

After all, Mother hadn’t been protecting him when she’d kept Father from presenting him to Voldemort. _What_ she’d been covering for, he didn’t know – but as mother of Voldemort’s heir, she wanted to survive as much as any of those in his circle. And she would probably be accorded a certain amount of power – though not as much as if Nothos had survived.

Draco shivered, suddenly awfully glad his brother was dead. He hated himself for it a moment later, but – _it means he won’t die at Voldemort’s hand. That I won’t have to see him tortured to death in front of me._ Because Nothos would never have agreed with his sire. And it would have killed him. 

He needed to get back inside. He’d learned well from his father; they wouldn’t have heard him fleeing, or even known that the spell surrounding them had been abruptly cut off. But if he didn’t get back inside soon, and they discovered what he’d been up to -

_I won’t live long enough to get back to Hogwarts._

And it was less than a month away. Not so long, compared to what he’d already endured. _I can make it._ And once he was there – the best-laid plans often went to hell. He would not lose this; the potion was complex, the spell even more so. He would practice. He would succeed.

_I have to._

* * *

****_(Voldemort)_****

* * *

 

He’d forgotten the sweetness of food. Real food, not just the vermin he’d captured among the tree-roots of the Forest. _Ahhhh._ He stretched, luxuriously. Some things were unlike any other in the world. Flesh was one of them. So many people didn’t appreciate the pounding of blood in their veins; couldn’t feel the cadence of a pumping heart, or the swish of air in filled lungs.

He reveled in it all.

And now – he had been planning, those years exiled in bodies not his own. Thinking of what he must do, what he must learn, when he was restored to himself once more. First, he would –

_No._ Before even that, he needed information. He needed to know the state of the Wizarding world, to know its strengths and weaknesses, to know where to strike.

Nails bit into the skin of his palms – and it was a tiny, human pain that he relished. More familiar to him was the rasp of scales, the pull of sinuous muscle. And so he welcomed now even the pitfalls of humanity.

_I will not be vulnerable for long._

The Potions Master would see to that. Severus Snape was a useful servant indeed – the only thing that kept him from killing the man, double-agent or no. Snape was far too intelligent at times. But for now, Voldemort controlled him.

His plans were beginning – but he would have to alter them, to take into account those two Muggles who were so impervious to his magic. He would know what made them so. And he would take that power for his own.

_And then . . ._

He would have the future.

He would have the world.

 

 

 

 

**_Fin_ **

 


End file.
